A Gotham Night Dreary
by Almostgrown
Summary: Losing himself in the role of masked vigilante, Bruce recruits others to the cause as a bounty for the head of Batman brings a few new surprises to Gotham's nightlife. -previous chapters typos have been corrected.
1. Prologue

_Author's note: Just a legal C.M.A., I don't own the characters or setting of my Dark Knight stories. If I did, I wouldn't be sitting in this cubicle writing for you; I'd be sipping a martini with Charlize Theron while discussing philosophy with Natalie Portman._

_This is a sequel to Gotham Harvest; I'm not saying you have to read that one, but you might be a little confused around chapter 4 or 5 here otherwise._

_Also, if you are looking for a story that keeps the comic book continuity, then this probably isn't for you. And now for your entertainment…_

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_A Gotham Night Dreary_

_Prologue_

The city is changing. He can feel it as the rain pounds into the rubber coating that bonds itself to his skin by sweat and, more often than not, blood. As the water slithers off to finish its journey to the ground, he thinks back to the word Jim Gordon used on the roof of the 41st precinct of the Gotham Police Department. What was that word?

_Escalation._

The rain fades as sunlight explodes into beams of shrapnel as it rises above the water in Gotham Harbor. The faint streaks of light are painful to his eyes; he fleetingly thinks perhaps he should request sunglasses from the tailors next time.

This is the calm before the storm. He may only have succeeded in giving the criminal underworld a target against which to unify. This could be the thought of a man on the brink of exhaustion after standing vigil on a cold January night, or perhaps it portends of war to eradicate him.

The beacon rising in front of him is all that concerns him at the moment. He wonders how much longer he can stay. Not yet, the night isn't over yet. He backs under a cantilevered balcony as the encroaching light eats at the shadowy rooftop.

Just a few minutes more.

If only there were some action to take his mind away from the impending sunrise, something to burn away the doubt and insecurity that appears with the light of day. And yet, there is nothing, not even a wayward jaywalker.

Then there is no choice left. There is nothing left to do but assume the mantle of Bruce Wayne. And perhaps, sleep.


	2. Alms for the Poor

_Alms for the Poor_

The pressure on Bruce Wayne's throat is excruciatingly unbearable. He feels his trachea tighten and a slow rasp of breath escapes his lips. His eyes dart from side to side, looking for something. Then out of the corner of his eye, he sees it balanced delicately on the ledge of the marble column nearby.

He quickly grabs the glass of champagne from the serving tray and downs the bubbling liquid as quickly as his constricted throat will allow. Tugging at the collar of his tuxedo shirt, the starch grinds like sandpaper into the skin of his neck, but allows the billionaire a breath of air. He turns his head to the right, tilts it back slightly and rotates unnaturally to the left, causing three loud cracks from the vertebrae at the top of his spinal column, much to the disgust of two guests conversing nearby.

As they pick up their own drinks and walk to a distant corner of the room, Bruce manages a slight wave and half a smile to acknowledge their departure. Quickly, his attention turns to the refilled tray of champagne making another round through the well-dressed room. Making the exchange for a fresh glass of comfort, Bruce sees Captain James Gordon standing off to the side, admiring the attendance. Bruce is relieved to see a friendly face and works around the perimeter of the crowd to have a word with the man who has fought as hard as Batman to save Gotham.

"Hello. I didn't expect to find you here tonight."

Gordon looks at Bruce, and then looks around as if lost. "Are you speaking to me?"

Bruce's confusion is suddenly lifted as he remembers that Bruce Wayne has not spoken to James Gordon since the night Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered. "Ah, Captain, I'm Bruce…."

"I know who you are Mr. Wayne. Just surprised you know me." Gordon fumbles slightly to shift his drink in order to meet Bruce's outstretched hand.

Still trying to cover his awkward and unexplainable social call on the policeman, Bruce pulls the only response he can think of. "You were… very kind to me the night of my parents' deaths."

_Well, that did little to put the awkwardness to rest._

Bruce looks at his watch; the second hand creeps from one tick to another. He glances out the patio doors as the last hues of light dissolve into the upper atmosphere like smoke from an extinguished candle.

Charity events are a necessary evil for the wealthy. Not even the richest of them can afford the negative press of shrugging off fundraisers for the less fortunate, lest they come to endure the label of elitist in the tabloids. Although, the vicious circle of this lifestyle is that attending these events is also a set up for Paparazzi laying in wait to prey on the public missteps of Gotham's privileged.

Bruce turns to the open patio door, the slight breeze beckoning him to step into the burgeoning darkness. The silky, cool night air seduces him as it glides across his neck, tickles his ear and ruffles through his hair. The breeze entwines around his waist and slowly pulls him into its dampness.

The pull of the night is callously broken by the call of his name. "Bruce."

Harvey Dent grabs the billionaire's shoulder and spins him back to the crowd. "I see you've met Captain James Gordon. He's going to be the next Police Commissioner of Gotham if I have any say in it."

Gordon blushes like a schoolgirl being asked to the prom by the most popular guy in school. "Well I don't know about that Harvey."

"Nice to see you again Harvey," is all Bruce can mutter, his mind still elsewhere. But as quickly as he arrived, Harvey is gone, his attention turned to another guest.

Getting his head back to the game at hand, Bruce notices Gordon is almost as uncomfortable with this crowd as he is. "These charity events are mostly Photo Ops anyway, Captain. As long as you don't get drunk and burn the place down, you'll be fine."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Harvey thinks a few public appearances will help get me noticed by the Mayor's office."

"You're a damn good cop….from what I read in the papers…I think you already have their attention."

From across the room, Harvey yells to Gordon. "Jim, come over here, the Mayor wants to say hello."

Gordon turns to Bruce and, for a brief moment, appears speechless. With a quick shrug, he blurts out a quick "Thanks" and smoothes his coat before leaving to catch up with Harvey.

Bruce looks at his watch again. Is the damn thing broken? That had to be more than five minutes. With a sigh of resignation, he pulls the silver flip phone from his pocket and pushes the speed dial button.

"Yes, Sir?" The dutiful voice of Alfred answers on the first ring.

"Alfred, I'm ready to leave, can you meet me downstairs with the car?"

"Not quite yet, Master Wayne. You've only been there an hour."

"I'm bored. I paid my money, drank some champagne. What else is there?"

"Might I suggest trying to make friends, sir?"

"Ugh, but why?"

"Ah, yes because clearly your social skills need no further practice. Try chatting it up with the woman in the slinky black dress."

"Alfred, how do you know there will be a woman in a slinky, black dress?"

"Because there always is, sir. I will be there in an hour."

Bruce folds the phone and slips it back into his pocket, and searches once again for that elusive champagne tray. In the corner, sitting tucked discretely on the end of a black leather sofa, a black slingback high heel dangles wistfully in the air, swinging gently like the stereotypical saloon door, perpetually rocking for some unknown reason. The leg connected to this foot has a Bronze Goddess sheen. Bruce's eyes follow the legs onto the sofa where a skin-tight black dress chameleons itself against the black leather and a curly haired brunette grins widely with her ruby lips, while stirring a finger in her champagne.

Lifting the finger to her lips, the smile relaxes enough to enclose the finger to suck the sweet sparkle from the manicured digit. Her long, black lashes sweep down as her exotic, almond shaped eyes close momentarily.

Bruce walks over to the sofa, a charmingly mischievous smile escaping its repressive captor. "Hello. I'm…"

"I know who you are Bruce. I think everyone here does." She matches his impish grin with one of her own. "You don't remember me do you?" She asks coyly, her finger dipping once again into the bubbly nectar.

Bruce concentrates on her face, no easy feat considering the low cut of the dress and the push up bra, trying to place how he should know this beautiful woman. He has known quite a few attractive women in his time, one of the many implicit advantages to being rich and famous.

He furls his brow and admits defeat, setting his jaw and pursing his lips; he ever so slightly shakes his head.

_Forgetting a woman you've met before, automatic two strikes to the batter._

"Selina" She says matter of factly. Apparently she isn't accustomed to being forgotten. "…Selina Kyle, from Gotham Academy."

Forgetting a woman you made out with in the boy's restroom during the spring formal, three strikes.

"Well, don't I look like an ass?" Apologies never came easy to Bruce.

"Actually, you look quite yummy. If it's any consolation, I don't remember who I ended up with that night." The smile never leaves her face.

"Well, obviously you were driven to acts of desperation by a rebellious miscreant." Bruce slyly tries to gauge how much of a wound has been reopened with this conversation.

"And the Coke and booze I was on had nothing to do with it, I'm sure." Selina speaks of it as though she is a girl scout brandishing her merit badges.

"You left the Academy after that night." Suddenly, Bruce is flooded by memories of his senior year at Gotham Academy, his own rebellious youth the aftermath of his parents' murder.

"My Grandparents weren't as tolerant of that sort of behavior as my father had been. They had me committed to the Arkham juvenile ward until I was eighteen, the longest 9 months of my life. As soon as I was legal, I discharged myself and hopped a bus to Central City."

"And now?"

"Now I limit my alcohol tasting to my finger, and the only coke I buy comes in cans."

Her frankness elicits a smirk from Bruce. She is something much different than the stodgy uptights that frequent these events. Bruce's flip phone rings with Alfred's tone, and Bruce now curses how quickly an hour has gone. "Alfred, I think I will want a little more time…"

But before he can finish, the Butler interjects his urgent message. "Sir, I think you should look out a window."

Bruce knows what he will find, but still he casually glances toward the patio as guests file out the door, pointing to the sky. Emblazoned on the black canvas that is Gotham's night cover, the signal of the bat burns its image into the clouds.

Selina has noticed it as well and stands to get a better look. "Wow! I'd heard about it, but hadn't yet seen it. It's amazing."

Bruce looks around the room and spots Gordon looking out the balcony doors as well. "Something isn't right, Gordon is still here."

"I'll have the car downstairs momentarily Master Wayne." And Alfred hangs up leaving Bruce to sort a way out of the building as inconspicuously as possible.

"Thank you Alfred, have the company jet prepared for takeoff." Folding the phone he turns to Selina, "I'm sorry but I have to fly to Metropolis tonight, there are…circumstances…that require my attention."

"Of course, the life of a jet setting, corporate playboy. Try not to forget where we are in the conversation."

"I'd like the chance to finish it. How do I…?"

"This is my penthouse. I run the Narrow Expressions Children's Art Foundation, Bruce. I'm an Art Exhibitor."

"So I'll just come by when I get back in town." Bruce suddenly wishes he'd written a bigger check earlier in the evening.

"Call first, Casanova." She stuffs a business card in his lapel pocket as he leaves his drink.

On the way out, he notices Gordon answer a cell phone call, with little pause, Gordon yells to Dent, "Harvey, find Barbara, we have to leave now." The wavering in his voice does not inspire hope in Bruce.


	3. From the Top

Ch. 2: From the Top

Captain James Gordon had invited his daughter Barbara to attend the Children's Art Charity fundraiser to show her the good of which society is still capable. Barbara recently graduated from the Police Academy and joined the Bludhaven Police Department. Before starting the job, she wanted to visit her father in Gotham to see how a good cop gets the job done.

Gordon was not eager to see his daughter enter the criminal justice arena. Gordon knows all too well what this job does to a person. Those that don't lose themselves in the power and authority of the career are doomed to suffer in other ways. Nightmares, depression, and alcohol abuse are just a few of the side effects of fighting crime in a city consumed by temptation. As bad as Gotham is, Bludhaven is worse.

When he couldn't talk Barbara out of going to the academy, he offered to call in a favor from a friend in Metropolis. The police there had to work a little harder since Superman left, but it was still a far cry from the nights in Bludhaven. 

By the time Gordon's cell phone rang at the fundraiser, he already knew something was wrong. A standing order at the 41st precinct is that no one touches the klieg light except him. As Harvey's sedan rounded the corner of Pritt Avenue, Gordon felt something he hadn't noticed in 17 years, fear.

A patrol car sat idly burning in front of the station; two officers, face down in pools of their own blood casually strewn nearby. Slumped by the entrance to the building, another officer had died clutching his neck as blood from his artery coated his uniform, turning the blue shirt to purple. More officers and detectives in various displays of death lined the street, picked off like targets at a carnival shooting gallery. From the placement of the bodies, Gordon immediately assesses the trajectory of the shooter to be a second story window from within the precinct. 

Three squad cars are barricaded together defensively to shield a handful of patrol officers lucky enough to escape the sniper's wrath. Gordon motions to Harvey to stop and he slowly opens the door to get out of the car. 

"Harvey, take Barbara back to my place and stay there until you hear from me."

A look of indignation sweeps across Barbara's face. "I'm an officer Dad. I can help here."

"You are a rookie with no field experience and out of your jurisdiction. You are going back to my house, young lady." To him, Barbara would always be the little pig-tailed girl that used to sneak up on him during those family vacations at the lake and drop flower petals onto him as he slept in the hammock in the backyard. 

Without hesitation, Gordon shuts the door and Harvey backs the car out of the fray. Gordon makes his way to the officers shielded by the cars to find out what is going on at his precinct.

"What do we know?"

One of the officers looks at Gordon and shakes his head. Gordon looks to the other, who also has a dumbfounded look. Then from across the line of cars, Gordon hears someone calling. "Captain."

He makes his way behind the line of defense to the officers at the other end. Two are armed and monitoring the situation, one is propped against the car, applying a blood soaked cloth to a torso wound. The injured officer struggles to keep awake. "Jim, we are all that's left."

"Jean Paul? Oh, God. How bad?"

"I can't…. feel my legs."

The officer next to him looks down, "I didn't see an exit wound. I think the bullet is lodged somewhere around his lower spine."

"Who's in there? Is it one of ours?" Gordon tries to piece together the enormity of the situation as he witnesses his friend Jean Paul Valley, a five-year department veteran, bleeding to death in the street.

Jean Paul winces, as he shakes his head no. "There are 12 of them. They came armed with AK's and knives. They knew what they were doing…hit us during shift change. They took the building. I don't know if anyone inside is still alive."

Gordon looks around as off duty officers begin appearing alongside the patrol cars. "What about the sniper?"

"He's using our SWAT gear. They must've found the armory. They wanted the light. I heard them say. It's him they want; we're just the bait."

"Captain?" Another voices breaks in from across the barricade. Gordon looks to see who is summoning him. "The other precincts have gone to a severe alert lockdown in case this is a coordinated attack. We're on our own."

Gordon looks at the building. "It's a coordinated attack all right. Put in a call to the National Guard; see if we can get some support out here."

As if on cue, the thundering sound of a tank engine rumbles through the streets, echoing off the stone buildings. Rounding the same corner off Pritt Avenue, bright lights blind the officers momentarily before they can train their guns on the approaching vehicle. The engine roars one last time before winding down to a stop. The lights cut off and a hatch begins to open on top of the armored machine.

Gordon barks an order to the officers, "Don't shoot. We're going to need him."

The figure of Batman rises from the cockpit of the black Tumbler. He pauses momentarily to take in the sight of 20 cops aiming their weapons at him, some in uniform, others wearing little more than jeans and tank tops.

"Glad you could drop by" is Gordon's way of trying to lighten the mood. It doesn't work.

Batman steps down from the vehicle and walks to the Captain, all the while targeted by wary flat footers. "What's the situation?"

"12 terrorists heavily armed. They may have hostages." 

"What do they want?" 

"You." Gordon glares at Batman, wondering if he is adding fuel to the fire by allowing this costumed vigilante access to the engagement. 

Batman doesn't waver once at the answer. He knew this day would come. He knew there would be collateral damage. He also knows there is likely to be more before the night is over. He looks at Gordon, resolved to end the standoff, "Any other requests?"

"Yeah. We'd like to keep the building." Gordon barely finishes the sentence when a rocket-powered grenade launches from the second story window. He and Batman duck as the explosive whizzes by, missing its intended target of the Tumbler and striking a parked car 30 yards down the street. The asphalt trembles as windows ripple into shards of glass. "Oh yeah, they also have access to our SWAT armory." 

A nod from Batman and he offers Gordon the key to the sophisticated military vehicle. "Maybe my car should be moved."

Gordon takes the key as Batman pulls a few items from his utility belt. "How're you going in?"

"From the top." And the compressed gas launcher fires a line high into the night sky as Batman locks the retractor into his belt and wraps his cape around himself, disappearing into the darkness.


	4. Twelve Little Gunmen All in a Row

Ch. 3: Twelve Little Gunmen All in a Row

Two gunmen pace the rooftop of the 41st precinct, peering into the darkness surrounding the building. One stops by the service door to the access stairs and knocks twice, pauses and knocks one more time. The door opens and another armed thug looks out.

"Hey Rodriguez, trade places with me, it's friggin' cold out here."

"You think I got a heater in here, pendejo?" The man known to his cohorts as 'Voodoo' Rodriguez sneers as he shuts the door on Jones. The nickname has nothing to do with religious beliefs, but was given to him upon his arrival from Peru with an accent so thick, the simplest sentence sounded as though he were bestowing a curse in foreign tongue. The name stuck.

Of the twelve men currently occupying the police barracks, Jones is the least proficient at his work. Chosen because of boasting that he had killed a man bare handed in a fistfight, what he always failed to mention was that his opponent died from heart attack in the middle of the match and not some death dealt blow. By the time he realized this plan involved killing cops, it was too late to back out.

The other man on the roof silently spits a wad of tobacco-seasoned saliva into the gravel of the rooftop as he eyes the surrounding buildings for signs of movement. 'Tex' was new to Gotham; straight from the plains of Texas, he was recruited specifically for this job because of his straight shot and quick draw. Taking a point position on the roof, he was given the best odds of the group for getting a shot in on Batman.

Jones pushes the gun strap around to move the AK assault rifle out the way as he slides down his zipper to relieve his bladder on the gravel beside the rooftop access outbuilding.

The sensation of cold steel against his manhood is more than enough to end his flow.

"Keep it in your pants, and keep your eye on the sky," Tex menacingly intones his threat barely above a hissing whisper to the man, "or next time, I'll cut if off."

Jones gulps as the blade vanishes as quickly as it arrived. Fumbling to close his zipper, he kicks some gravel over what little bit of relief made its way to the ground. He turns away from the building in time to see a silhouette pass through the light.

He calls out to the other side of the roof. "Tex?"

Tex takes a deep breath, his frustration with this amateur crook reaching a boiling point. "What is it now?" He turns to threaten the meek gunman one last time only to see Batman waiting for him. A quick thrust of a gloved hand to the thug's throat, and Tex begins choking, unable to alert Jones to the imminent danger. Tex reaches for the AK strapped to his shoulder, but isn't fast enough as Batman grabs the barrel, turns the gun and slams it upward, the stock crashing into Tex's jaw, mashing his teeth together and knocking his head back in whiplash. The man falls into the gravel as it shuffles slightly under his body. Dazed and winded, Tex looks up only to see the butt of the rifle once again coming toward him, and then the black of unconsciousness.

Jones peers through the blinding light of the signal, unable to see across the roof. He hears something scuffle the gravel, then a grave silence. The light flickers off. Jones hugs the assault rifle to his body, ready to fire on the slightest movement. He slowly walks to the darkened spotlight looking for Tex.

From atop the stairwell outbuilding, the dark shadow of Batman rises behind Jones, as the trigger-happy gunman walks around the light. Jones steps one last time in his slow circle around the Kleig and Batman pulls the line attached to a chain discretely concealed in a shallow burial of gravel, catching Jones' leg in a snare, pulling him off balance and face down to the ground.

Jumping from the outbuilding, Batman lands, dropping a knee into the sciatic nerve of his prey. He quickly uses the chain to secure Jones, and pulls the crook to his feet.

The second front of the ambush is getting edgy. Batman should have been there by now according to the plan. Carter paces the hallway of the fourth floor of the precinct waiting for Voodoo to signal from the outbuilding.

Carter is the muscle. A former heavyweight boxer, his frame is enhanced by overdeveloped muscles cocooning his arms and torso. His job is to get in close for the hand-to-hand combat after the first team weakens Batman with distance attacks. His signal flies past the window as he walks by. Carter runs to the window to see what, or who, came from the roof.

A chain swings haphazardly outside the window as Carter peers out. Dangling from the end of the line is Jones, rendered unconscious when he hit the third story window below. Carter leans out the window to look up to the roof, but something catches his attention in his peripheral vision. Before he can react Batman pulls the giant man through the window to fall to the cement sidewalk.

Watching helplessly from the street, Gordon sees the man fall, scraping along the brick wall with the slim hope of catching hold before slamming into the concrete landing pad. Gordon wonders if he has made a mistake unleashing this masked menace to retake the building. As Batman enters through the fourth story window, Gordon notices his men, looks of contempt and bewilderment on their faces, and he knows the delicate balance he has maintained between his career and his association with this vigilante will not last the night.

On the third floor, Gator Trick has watched "the Bat" dispatch two of his cohorts. He attempts to radio the other two on the roof. Voodoo is kicking and ramming his shoulder into the access door to the roof, trying to get out after hearing the sound of breaking glass. His calls to Tex and Jones are left unanswered. His radio suddenly crackles to life with Gator's voice. "Tex? Voodoo? Report?"

Voodoo ceases thumping against the door to answer. "Yo, I'm locked in up here ese." He yells at the door as if it will do his bidding, "Abra la puerta, Jones!"

"Jones isn't up there man. I don't know about Tex. Carter just flew past the window. He's on the fourth. Meet me there and we'll double-team him." Gator heads for the elevator as Voodoo flips off the door and starts down the stairs to the fourth floor.

Batman hears the perturbed Hispanic thundering down the metal access stairs and, as the handle of the firedoor turns, he kicks against the door, hurling it back into the face of the goon. Voodoo feels the bones crack in his nose and the warm sensation of blood splatter across his cheeks as he falls back into the stairwell. The metal treads connecting with the back of his head are the final sensation he has.

Batman grabs the unconscious ruffian and tosses him into the elevator as the call light blinks, summoning the lift to the third floor.

Gator has his weapon pointed at the elevator door as it arrives on his floor. The last thing he expected to see was Voodoo lying crumpled in the back with blood streaming down his face. Gator enters the box to check on his partner, and he realizes his best chance now is to team up with others on the lower floors. He moves to push the button for two, but pauses to consider if Bane is really the guy with whom he wants to make a last stand. Sure the guy is a badass crook to the core, but he's just as likely to take out his own team in the process. Gator decides to take his chances on the first floor with Brock, Dojo and A.J.

Batman is riding atop the elevator car as it begins to move. He finishes affixing a small strip to the cable and retracts his own line on his belt, floating away from the descending car. With the touch of a remote, a focused detonation blows the cables from the elevator and the car jerks as it begins to freefall to the basement. Inside the car, Gator is knocked against the wall as the cable breaks. Just as suddenly, the car jerks to a stop as the emergency brakes kick in to stop the fall. The power cuts off and Gator is left in the dark with his unconscious conspirator.

On the second floor, Bane hears the ruckus in the elevator and chooses a new weapon from his arsenal of S.W.A.T. gear. Picking up a handheld battering ram, he pulls a pistol from his belt and makes his way toward the elevator. Bane presses the call button with no response. Holstering his gun, he slams the battering ram into the elevator door, denting the steel covering. Using the ram he pushes the doors open to look down the shaft at the detached car hovering mid-floor.

Bane is the man responsible for assembling this rag tag crew of bandits to raid the station as bait to entrap the Batman. The price on the head of the masked vigilante has enticed a worldwide market of mercenaries and petty amateurs alike to set in motion schemes to claim the bounty. No one knows who is sponsoring the hunt, but the rules were made explicitly clear. To collect, one must personally deliver the cape and cowl of the Dark Knight, with his head included.

Bane knew most of his crew wouldn't survive the ordeal, less money to be split at the end of the day. He had studied Batman. He knew the vigilante's tactics, eliminate multiple entrance and exit points, separate and incapacitate. The Bat followed this procedure consistently and Bane meant to use it to his advantage. The precinct had two entrance points, the roof and the street. Bane positioned 3 at each point, although he knew of the Bat's inclination for rooftops. As he expected, Batman took out the elevator and most likely had barricaded the rooftop access door by now. He assumed the elevator was being used as a holding cell for at least one of his band of outlaws.

The elevator damage also meant Batman had bested 4 of his men so far and found Gator on the third floor. Bane slips the Glock 18 machine pistol from his holster and flips the firing lever to burst mode, enabling the rapid-fire function of the gun. He knows an assailant only gets one chance with Batman and he wants to get off as many rounds as he can.

Batman descends the stairwell cautiously between the third and second floors. He stops momentarily on the landing between floors and looks down through the flights of stairs to the first floor. No movement or sound from anywhere below. He realizes he should have asked Gordon where the armory is located; that is likely to be the staging ground of the main ambush. Too late for that now. He glances toward the entrance to the second floor, knowing he needs to clear it before moving lower. This is the floor from where the sniper was firing. This guy also had the rocket launcher; he hesitates to think what other toys were taken from the armory to this floor.

Batman moves toward the antiquated wooden door with the frosted glass, a throwback to the "classic" police station architecture with dark wood trim and moldings that were designed to give a warm, homely feeling to the structure. The door is ajar and Batman slides his gloved hand across the knotted cherry wood, hoping to open a wider view of the level without being spotted by the gunman. Little does he know the attacker is already positioned behind the door, waiting for Batman to breech the entry to an onslaught of bullets.

As the door opens wider, Batman creeps with it, edging further into the hallway. His knee bumps the door and it bounces open quicker than intended. In an instant his hand reaches out to grab the edge of the door to stop it before swinging wide to reveal his not so stealthy entrance. As his fingers wrap around the edge of the door just below the latch, the anxiety in Bane takes over and he squeezes the trigger of his pistol, hurtling several rounds into the frosted glass window.

Shards rain down on a crouching Batman, skidding across his exposed cheeks and flowing over his outstretched arm. Pulling in his arm he jumps back into the stairwell, pulling items from the utility belt. He loads the gas-powered launcher with a grappling hook and pulls a small black box, sticking it to the wooden banister railing in the stairway. Launching the grapple, Batman locks onto his belt and hoists himself between the flights of stairs.

Bane moves toward the battered door, kicks it shut and aims the gun into the stairwell from the broken window, just in time to hear the beep from the explosive left by Batman.

The detonation blasts Bane into the open elevator shaft, dropping him onto the broken cable car.

Outside, the remaining police force watch in awe as the second floor windows blow out of the building they call home. Gordon holsters his revolver and barks an order to whoever can hear him, "That's it. Grab whatever you've got, we're going in." Officers begin pulling extra pistols and rifles from the cars and any riot gear they have handy.


	5. Smoke and Mirrors

Ch. 4: Smoke and Mirrors

As the dust and smoke from the explosion fade, a semi conscious Bane wearily opens his eyes to a darkened shaft, pain searing the nerves in his back as protruding bolts and rivets on top of the elevator carve into his flesh through the charred remnants of his shirt and jacket. As his eyes adjust to the dark, a shadowy contrast hurtles toward him. Batman drops down the shaft, grabbing Bane by his clothing and ascends again to the top.

Batman interrogates the dangling attacker, his limp body betraying the fire in his eyes. "Tell me about the other six."

"Piss off." A slight grin escapes Banes lips as he defies the Dark Knight, bloody spittle spewing from his mouth with the words and landing on the breastplate of his vanquisher. Batman glares momentarily at the broken thug, then releases him to fall down the shaft two and half floors to the top of the elevator car.

The impact leaves a twisted frame of a body, contorted in a gruesome pose as shattered and protruding bones release the muscles and skin to stretch beyond their intended function. Demolished steel cable remnants thread through the tissue, binding the body to the bolts and rivets that once again puncture his skin. 

The Batman was gone before the body ended its descent. 

Moving down the flights of stairs to the first floor, Batman pulls a flash/bang grenade from his belt and tapes a bag of Riotril powder to it. Tossing the combination down the steps into the first floor lobby, the tap of the canister hitting the floor garners the attentions of Brock, A.J. and Dojo.

The three thugs took defensive positions when the level above them exploded. Unsure of where to expect an entrance, their attentions are drawn to the sound of something rhythmically descending the stairs through the smoke and dust. The tumbling canister comes to a rest at the bottom of the stairwell. Before any of them can react, the flare from the detonation blinds them as the powder is blown over the lobby and onto the armed sentries. 

Pulling a fire hose from its spool on the wall, Batman engages the line and shoots water down the stairwell into the lobby. The water cascades down the stairs into the atrium, mixing with the powdery crystals. The Riotril dissolves in the water, gelling to a slippery slime coating on the floor. Stepping toward the stairwell, the sentinels fall into the slick, unable to attain footing. As the water washes over them, the film covering them melts into the lubricant. 

They lose grip of their weapons, as each move they make pulls them closer to the greased trap. Unable to pick themselves or their weapons from ground, the thugs flail about wildly trying to find traction in the chemical mixture. 

The police force cobbled together with riot gear and whatever firearms could be gathered from outside the building makes its way toward the precinct's main entrance. As the regiment marches determinedly to their beleaguered headquarters, water seeps from under the doors to the besieged complex.

As the water trickles down the outer steps, Gordon eyes it suspiciously. "What the hell…?"

Reaching down to dip his fingers in the puddle at his feet, he rubs his thumb across the oily film on his hand. "It's slick 'em, get out of the path!"

Gordon points to two uniformed officers, "You and you, with me to the fire escape." The three dart to the rusty metal ladder dangling from the side of the building.

Fingers Fitzgerald savors his work. Picking locks was once a hobby, the way to practical jokes and light-hearted pranks. After picking the lock to the trophy case of his college athletic department and pilfering its contents, he found his prank quickly turned into a felony that resulted in expulsion from the school and a prison sentence. Unlike the rehabilitation program it was meant to be, his sojourn became an opportunity to spin his talent into a marketable career. 

Now, at the top of his game, his role in the ambush was specific to gaining access to the S.W.A.T. lock-up in the basement of the precinct. Robustly relishing his accomplishment, he strolls upstairs to brag some more to the three guards taking point at the building's main entrance.

He hears the water dripping before he notices the soaking wet carpeted stairway. Stooping down to study the wetness the light in the stairwell is suddenly eclipsed. Looking up to the ceiling he sees Batman staring back at him. 

The Dark Knight retracts the serrated titanium teeth in the pads attached to his knees and palms. With catlike agility, he flips his body as he freefalls toward his prey. In the instant before attack, he once again deploys the metal claws from his climbing gear as Fingers Fitzgerald feels a quiver in his upper lip, the only movement his fear-infested body will allow.

In the basement of the station is housed the armory for the Special Weapons and Tactical Unit of the 41st precinct. S.W.A.T. has its share of action in a city like Gotham, cleaning up the chemical induced, paranoid rioting that shook the city when Dr. Jonathan Crane's toxin was released, the hostage situation at D/C pharmaceuticals which resulted in another madman escaping with enough controlled substances to manufacture any designer drug he wishes, and an explosive sabotage operation at Gotham University's Infectious Disease Research Facility were some of the more recent instances of S.W.A.T. being called to arms. Some citizens and public officials had begun to question the necessity of such a highly trained, and expensive, force given that each of these situations was a disgraceful failure to the unit, requiring Batman to swoop in and end the threat by ever increasingly violent means.

The police, however, took an opposing view, feeling that perhaps The Batman was the reason their procedure and policy never reached closure in a given crisis. In each instance, suspects and, more often than not, civilian casualties were left in the wake of his intervention. Tonight the debate favors the vigilante as the invaders caught the precinct and its tactical unit unaware. 

Sorting through the racks of weaponry like children with presents, Weiss and Clark struggle to find ways to carry more than their arms can hold. The limp and bloody body of Fingers Fitzgerald tumbles down the stairs like a broken Slinky coil. The two miscreants know Batman is not far behind and fumble to choose one of the myriad weapons from their cache with which to fend off the coming onslaught. Digging through the piles of artillery in their arms, dropping more than they grab, they hesitate a moment too long.

The hiss of the harpoon dart from his compressed gas launcher is heard too late. It strikes Weiss in the shoulder blade, embedding itself in the tendons and muscles. Before the pain has time to set in, the dart is retracted by the attached monofilament line, taking with it a large chunk of flesh upon extraction.

Clark watches his companion fall in agony, his torturous wail stifling as shock from the pain and massive blood loss quickly sets in. Raising his arm to fire the pistol in his hand, a bat shaped throwing star slices through his trigger finger and plants itself in his bicep. Looking up from the glistening wound, Clark expects to see the masked crime fighter standing in front of him; instead he is greeted by Batman's parting gift, a canister of tear gas. The gas seeps from the ends of the metal cylinder spreading across the room like an eerie green fog. The symptoms begin with an itch in the corner of his eyes, but soon the thug's vision is too blurred to guide him. As the stinging pain of needles puncturing his corneas grows, he attempts to feel his way to the stairwell.

On the roof, Gordon and the officers find two assailants subdued and the access door to the station stairwell blocked shut. Riot gear clad officers make their way through the gas and Riotril remnants at the main entrance.

As EMT's cart the majority of the twelve attackers out on stretchers, Gordon looks around to see in which dark corner the vigilante has taken refuge. Finding his way back to the roof, he finally locates the man responsible for orchestrating the bloody crescendo to this production. Standing vigil on a rooftop across the street, Batman studies the outcome of his work.

The two men stare at each other in silence for a moment that extends longer than intended before Batman turns and vanishes into the darkness. Muttering barely above a whisper, Gordon poses the question that has weighed heavily on his mind as his comrades lay dying in the street and his second home crumbled in front of him, "where do you draw the line?" 

Although it is a question he would like to ask the man behind the cowl, at the moment, it is with his own answer that he must come to terms.


	6. The Hitchhiker's Guide to Gotham City

_Ch. 5: The Hitchhiker's Guide to Gotham City_

Blüdhaven once rivaled Gotham in gross per capita income from shipping. 4,260 feet (1298 meters) of saltwater separate the cities across Avalon bay. If not for this ebbing tidal basin buffer, the two cities would have intertwined like a weed-infested garden decades ago.

The once bustling docks now sit abandoned in disrepair from the union conflict of the sixties that crippled the coastal town. When dock laborers were forced to join a corrupt union to find work, many crossed the water to Gotham rather than play by the mob's rules of employment. Those that stayed soon found themselves targets in a battle for control of the waterfront. Factions of the ruling mafia family began territorializing the docks, ships and distribution within the city, eventually leading to the 'Sunday Slaughter' as it came to be known.

One unseasonably cold Sunday morning in September of 1964, a congregation of longshoremen, their wives and children made their way through the blustery wind to the Church of St. Isidore for services. The priest had counseled many of the workers on their decisions regarding the union, leading the charge to fight the corruption. As the parishioners settled into the pews for the day's homily, the bells trailed into silence following the bark of a shotgun.

Before the worshippers could react to the sound, armed gunmen stormed the sanctuary, firing as they entered the nave. No one was spared; the gruesome message was clear to dock workers in Blüdhaven. Within a month, all longshoremen joined the union responsible for the massacre. The monopoly over the docks elevated the Genovese family to the head of the mob.

The 'Sunday Slaughter' was a wake up call to the Police however. Assembling the resources needed to infiltrate and dismantle the organized crime syndicate took years, but by 1968, the enforcers and bosses were awaiting trials ranging from fraud and extortion to kidnapping and murder.

Released from their indentured servitude to the mafia, the workers fled the city with or without their families, and the docks and warehouses were left to decay.

Today most shipping to and from Blüdhaven is done by road. Box trailers and flat beds carry cargo to planes, vessels and distributors outside the city for further transport. After the terrorist attack by Ra's Al Ghul on the Gotham Mass Transit System, measures were taken to limit access of hazardous materials in tunnels, bridges and public transportation in many cities like Blüdhaven, Gotham and Metropolis.

Cargo carriers were prohibited completely from the Avalon Bay Bridge, making the shipping route to Gotham a long, roundabout process of traveling the coastal highways to one designated access point on the Northwest side of Gotham.

Rather than take the Interstate between cities and risk speeding tickets or penalties at the truck scales, many truckers choose the old dual lane road that circumnavigates the bay, following north along the shoreline up to Haven Harbor where the Gotham river branches off to slice through the two halves of the city.

The road is flat and the salt-water breeze curtails enough plant life to eliminate hiding spots for State Police Troopers to stalk speeding prey. It is about a ten-mile drive to Gotham by this route, but once you get to the Trigate Bridge you can easily reach drop points in upper Gotham or the Narrows.

A young, muscular man, in his early twenties, walks the side of the highway in scuffed hiking boots and worn out jeans. His faded red leather jacket conveys the image that he might be a transient who does his shopping in the dumpsters of the local charity for donated clothing.

The length of stubble on his chin suggests that his 5 o'clock shadow has been around for close to 48 hours. The army surplus duffel slung on his back wags as he walks backward along the highway's edge, scanning the oncoming traffic for a potential ride.

His short, black hair is mussed, resembling no style in particular, but with tufts shooting in different directions. His eyes hide from the glare of the winter sun as it refracts into splinters of light in the pollutant enriched haze hovering in the skyline; the dark green metal wrap around frames and mirrored lenses are distinctly out of place in his disheveled couture. With the designer name on the arm of the glasses frame and the diamond stud earring in his earlobe, the vagrant could easily pass as a forgotten eighties club kid.

He stares intently down the highway at an oncoming rig racing toward him. He doesn't even try to get the attention of the sedans and roadsters whizzing past him. As the semi gets closer, the hitcher moves his arm from his side to signal the driver with an outstretched thumb. The truck lumbers to a stop, the box trailer shimmying off to the side of the road behind it.

The passenger side door swings open and the young man climbs up. "Dangerous road to be walkin' on son" quips the driver, his stereotypical rotund stomach straining the buttons of his plaid shirt. The mop of greasy, shaggy hair under his baseball cap frames his portly face. He smiles a broad, goofy smile between his chubby cheeks, as if he is amused by his own Good Samaritan behavior.

"I appreciate the ride. How far are you going?" the young man stuffs his duffel bag on the floor between his legs as he closes the door.

"Just to Gotham, but I can drop you at a bus station or somethin'. Keep ya outta the cold for a bit."

"The city's fine. I've got some business there anyway." The young man checks his watch, pushes a button on the side, and pulls his jacket sleeve down to cover the timepiece.

The driver leers disbelievingly at the disheveled person next to him, "Business huh? What kind of businessman dresses like you?"

"The kind you don't want to deal with."

"Wasn't tryin' to be nosy, just small talk. Name's Joseph." The driver takes a hand off the wheel and wipes the sweaty palm on his shirt, then offers it to his passenger in greeting.

"I'm Dick." The hitchhiker shakes the clammy hand extended to him, then wipes the lingering moisture onto the seat beside him in mild disgust.

"Always thought a man had to have a lot of balls to call himself Dick." Joseph returns his focus to the wheel and the road in front of him as he lobs the comment to his traveling companion.

"Interesting pun." Some people laugh when jokes are made at their expense, others are incensed. Dick's response was coldly indifferent, as if acknowledging the conversation at all was a chore.

"Huh?"

"Nevermind." Dick has heard similar comments all his life. He could go by his given name of Richard, but that, he reminds himself, was his father's name, not his.

"You from Blüdhaven, Dick?"

"I was born there, but traveled around with my family."

"Really? What do they do?"

"They're dead." A brief silence falls between the two. No one likes to talk of the deceased, especially to a stranger.

Still curiosity is human nature, and Joseph is interested in details. "Sorry to hear. How long?"

"Nine years."

Joseph wonders how far he can press the topic before his passenger will take offense. He decides to take a more subtle approach at getting to know his traveling companion. "Got any brothers and sisters?"

"They're dead too."

Not very subtle after all. Joseph looks astounded by this admission. "Damn, I'm just steppin' in shit everywhere I turn in this conversation ain't I?"

Joseph sees the Trigate Bridge up ahead. He's picked up walkers before, but never met one with whom a conversation was this difficult. He was planning to swing into upper Gotham to drop this kid at a decent bus station, but the Helene Street junction in the Narrows is much closer. If it gets this guy out of his truck more quickly, it has Joseph's vote.

"I just gotta ask kid, if you don't mind tellin', how'd it happen?"

Dick turns his head to look at the trucker for the first time since getting in the vehicle. "They were murdered by a man named Joseph Kerr."

Before Joseph can react, Dick pulls a thin metal strip, about an inch wide and eighteen inches long, from his jacket. He slaps it down on top of Joseph's right hand on the steering wheel. The tension in the strip breaks and it wraps around Joseph's wrist, hand and the steering wheel, locking his arm in place.

"What the hell…" Joseph is caught off guard only a moment as the restraint traps his hand to the wheel of the rig. Reaching down beside his seat with his left hand, he pulls a baseball bat and reaches to swing at his assailant's face.

Dick catches the bat before it makes contact and slams the butt back into Joseph's chin. The crack of wood on bone echoes like a homerun hit as the jaw is dislocated. The truck swerves as Joseph reels from the blow. The bat falls to the floorboards as Dick grabs onto the seat and dashboard to stabilize himself.

Joseph turns back to Dick and mumbles through his protruded, hanging jaw, "You got the wrong guy."

"Been to Metropolis lately, Joe? Mr. Luthor doesn't like it when his bond money is wasted."

Joseph opens a hidden compartment in the dashboard and pulls a small pistol. Before he can take aim, Dick grabs his arm and forces the gun up toward the roof of the cab. As the two wrestle for control of the weapon, the truck begins to swerve.

At the cargo checkpoint on the Trigate Bridge, the Gotham Port Authority officers watch as the tractor trailer careens wildly onto the bridge, weaving side to side as it hurtles toward them. One officer pushes a call button from a watchtower and the radios of the checkpoint officials crackle to life. _We have a code red on the Trigate Bridge._

Inside the rig, the gun fires in the melee, shooting through the roof and deafening Joseph and Dick with the bang. It is just enough of a distraction for Dick to wrest the gun away from his opponent. Pulling the gearshift into neutral the transmission grinds as it is disengaged. The momentum carries the truck and trailer toward the end of the bridge with little sign of slowing down.

As the checkpoint officers scramble to clear the area for impact, one of them screams into his radio, "Put up the barricades!"

Metal plates begin to rise from the bridge to form a wall designed to slow a vehicle trying to get into the city. This terrorism countermeasure was installed to absorb the impact of a vehicle laden with explosives and cause the detonation in a contained shock zone. Whether carrying explosives or not, the effect of ramming this wall at high-speed means death to vehicle occupants.

Dick points the gun at Joseph, "Brakes, now!"

Joseph sneers knowing his control over the rig is his only leverage. Dick looks at the dashboard and sees what he needs. He pulls the knob for the air brakes on the trailer and the wheels instantaneously lock, skidding across pavement.

He grabs the wheel and gently steers the load to scrape the driver's side against the bridge wall, using the friction to stop the truck.

The cab comes to a stop yards from the checkpoint, the smell of burning rubber hanging in the air and the creaking of the metal body of the rig and trailer warping from the heat of grinding against the concrete bridge wall.

The passenger side door opens and Dick jumps to the ground, surrounded by armed Port Authority officers.

Slowly laying down the weapon and moving his hands to the air amid the shouting from the checkpoint guards to get on the ground, he lowers to his knees and places his hands behind his head. "My name is Dick Grayson. I'm a bounty hunter under contract to Luthorcorp. I am apprehending Joseph Kerr for jumping bail in Metropolis."


	7. Snake Oil Peddlers

_Ch. 6: Snake Oil Peddlers_

The WGOT TV traffic helicopter circles the sky over the Trigate Bridge, capturing the action unfolding below. The pilot was doing a routine flyover for the mid-day traffic report when he spotted a careening tractor-trailer swerving onto the bridge. As the Port Authority officers initiate evacuation and defensive measures, the onboard microwave transmitter on the aircraft relays the images back to the TV station, where the news production room is broadcasting its noon newscast. Master control technicians dial in the digital routers to catch the breaking news on Digibeta for B-roll playback over commentary. The teleprompter stops scrolling it's pre-scripted content for the program and the IFB earpiece in the lead anchor's ear begins spewing narration for the new story.

The lead anchor looks into the camera with a steady and foreboding glare, "A WGOT news exclusive this afternoon as a standoff unfolds on the Trigate Bridge. The WGOT traffic eye in the sky is on the scene to bring us the live events…"

Of the nine televisions at Wayne Manor, the only one on at the moment is in the East wing breakfast room where Bruce sits at the breakfast nook table swabbing out the carbon buildup from Batman's compressed gas launcher while his breakfast sits cold and untouched on the table.

Alfred enters and notices the food he prepared nearly half an hour ago has not moved from where he left it. "Wouldn't it be more prudent to do that downstairs, Master Wayne?"

"There's no TV down there, Alfred."

"Ah well, at least I know what to get for your birthday then. Is that a live newsfeed?"

"The media is calling it a cargo hijacking. The Port Authority has a man in custody."

Bruce studies the events on the screen more astutely than he lets on to Alfred. He has learned that most events in Gotham are not what they appear.

The television anchor relays information from the control room, "WGOT will monitor this breaking news event and provide full coverage this evening during our 6 o'clock evening news. A press conference to announce Gotham's latest scientific breakthrough was held this morning at the Vascular, Endocrinology, Neurology and Orthopedic Medicines research center in Upper Gotham. Gabrielle Milan brings us more."

The TV screen changes to an exterior shot of a woman in her late 20's, microphone in hand, standing in front of podium outside the research facility, "Thanks Bob. Thousands of Gothamites currently suffering from vascular, hormonal, bone and neurological disorders were heartened today when VENOM labs introduced an astonishing claim to the world. Facility public relations director, Hugo Van Duran announced today that human trials of a new wonder drug have been sanctioned by the FDA."

The image of the young broadcaster is replaced by a close up of the podium from earlier in the day as a throng of radio and newspaper reporters are crouched around it with mini-recorders in hand as the PR director, with his neatly organized report folder of prepared statements and facts, highlights the achievements of the hour, "We are very pleased to announce the Food and Drug Administration has approved our request to begin human trials of VENOM serum #412, an immuno-metabolic accelerator which has shown evidence of an ability to repair tissue and bone damage, as well as correct blood and hormone disorders in synthetic and animal trials."

The young reporter returns to the screen to summarize the rest of the event, "The research was given a boost a little over a year ago when findings from Gotham's Avian Flu outbreak compiled by Dr. Catherine Henner and the late Dr. Thomas Snood was incorporated into VENOM labs' research. You may recall, LexCorp was also interested in using Henner and Snood's work in its genetic research of the "exogene", a synthetic genetic marker under development to achieve similar results as the VENOM serum #412. Queen Industries was also working to develop a trial worthy version of "RL-65" as one of the company's many military development contracts. To date, neither Lexcorp nor Queen Industries has demonstrated a formulation acceptable to the FDA review board. VENOM labs expects test subject selection to begin in the next few weeks, hoping to capitalize on the positive FDA review with the thousands of Gothamites with injuries and deficiencies that may be treated with the new drug."

The live newsfeed cuts back to the studio as the anchor switches tone. "In other news, as expected, Metropolis newspaper reporter Lois Lane has been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize in the Feature Story category for her article 'Why the World Doesn't Need…'". Bruce switches the television off, staring at the black screen momentarily before Alfred comes back to remove the cold breakfast tray.

"Quite tumultuous times in which we live, aren't they sir?" asks Alfred.

"How's that Alfred?"

"Medical miracles born from the tragedy of last year's avian flu epidemic, a new feeling of security in Gotham, and all those other cities with reports of their own protectors like you."

"They aren't like me; especially the Boy Scout."

"Of course not, sir. Although, I do suppose their body counts are considerably less than yours of late."

"It isn't my choice Alfred. The criminals bring it on themselves."

Alfred doesn't respond, he has learned over the years that Bruce cannot be told what to believe, but his silence clearly signifies his disapproval.

Feebly attempting to distract his caretaker, Bruce brings up the one topic he knows will garner the full attention of his confidant. "I've been tracking the vigilantes in other cities."

Alfred dutifully removes the cold, unused food from the table, "Well I'm glad to see you've found something to fill that large block of free time you had then."

Bruce tosses a willful glance to his trusted associate, to implore Alfred to hear him out before rushing to judgment. "They have started communicating with each other regularly, setting up a watchtower network of first responder teams to crises across the country, some sort of club of champions."

Alfred stops his dishwashing and a roguish grin signals a new idea in his thoughts. "Like minded individuals working toward a unified goal isn't a bad idea. Have you considered throwing your cowl into the ring with them?"

"Well, since I haven't had time to print the bat monogrammed business cards, I'll just tell them to call me at home, Alfred."

"Don't make light of this sir; this is an opportunity for you and the world. Gotham isn't the only troubled city."

"It's the only one I care about. Anyway, I haven't heard from them."

Alfred considers the timing of Lois Lane's Pulitzer nominated article with this new development. "Perhaps His departure wasn't so spontaneous. This could be an attempt to ensure a legacy for the work all of you have begun. If your 'Boy Scout' can trust enough to ask for help, perhaps a 'Caped Crusader' should consider the same."

"I prefer to work alone." Bruce pauses, amazed with how Alfred can steer a conversation back to topic, ever the ardent taskmaster.


	8. New Girl in Town

_Ch. 7: New Girl in Town_

Upper Gotham is a risky place to burglarize as the sirens on the street below attest. Gotham police lost one part of the city to organized crime, and they've vowed not to lose the rest. If you're lucky enough to flee the cops below, the Batman is sure to get you on the rooftops.

However, uptown is the only place to obtain quality merchandise for fencing on the black market. Art, jewelry, designer clothes, take your pick from any of the condominiums near Gotham Square or Municipal Park and you'll find these in abundance.

As one petty cat burglar is finding out tonight, outrunning punishment in Gotham is getting more difficult each night. He thought it a stroke of luck when he found an open balcony overlooking the park, obviously the home of a woman with a medicine cabinet full of perfumes and copious designer thong underwear in the laundry basket.

What caught his eye was the glimmering reflection from the back of the closet when his LED flashlight passed by. Digging past the stored blankets and extra pillows he found a box of polished silver, candlestick holders, serving sets, flatware and other various pieces of serving ware. Loading his canvas duffel bag until it bulged with lumps and obtrusive curves, the thief barricaded the empty space using the stored bedding supplies with the hope that his victim wouldn't notice the missing heirlooms until after he offloaded it to a fence or a "don't ask, don't tell" pawn shop.

Hearing a noise by the balcony door, the crook flicked off his flashlight and peered into the darkness from deep within the walk-in closet. As his eyes adjusted, he could see a reflection of the balcony patio from the bathroom mirror, the moonlight streaking in to stain the floor just inside the French doors. The sheer chiffon drapes floating on the light, night breeze.

Tossing his sack over his shoulder, he strode back through the patio doors in triumphant posture. It had been months since he scored like this. He figured he made enough tonight to at least pay this month's rent, maybe even replace the wedding ring he took from his wife to hock for last month's rent. Though he's stolen from others for years, he never really felt the guilt of taking anything until he slipped the diamond ring and wedding band from her finger while she slept one night just before Christmas. Since that night, he has let her believe she lost them down the drain while washing glasses during one of her late night shifts at Tunney's Bar. Even a thief has standards, and he crossed a line he hoped he'd never come to.

Making sure the bag is tied securely over his shoulder, he grabs the dangling nylon climbing cord and begins the slow journey of scaling back up to the roof. Repelling down to the patio had been much easier and the additional weight on his back isn't any help.

Hoisting himself up to the roof, it is only seconds before he hears the sirens coming toward him. The bag clanks as the silver bangs together when he pulls the sack close to him and begins running.

Hurdling the small crevices between rooftops is the easy part; masking the melodic sound of silver clashing together is much more difficult. To slow down would make him a waiting target, but the echoing rings of metal are a homing signal for his location and direction.

The thief stops to listen for pursuers, only to remember that when your stalker is more urban legend than reality, you don't hear it coming. Lately, most of those who come across the vigilante protector of Gotham lack the capacity to speak about it afterward.

Picking up his stash, he doesn't hear the whip line whiz past him until it coils around his neck. It snaps taut, pulling him off balance as his spine follows his neck backward into an arch. His feet spring up in front of him as he lands next to the bag of silver on the gravel roof.

He rolls to his stomach and begins crawling through the stone to get away. Two black glove clad hands reach around his head and firmly grasp him by the jaw. As each finger comes to rest on his cheeks, he feels metallic, razor sharp claws at the end of digit. He freezes, hoping the vigilante will not snap his neck. The fingers slide back off of his face, digging slightly under the skin as they are pulled back into the darkness.

Turning to look at his assailant, he is shocked by the sight in front of him. An athletically built woman wearing a hand stitched outfit of leather and spandex towers above him. Wired into her gloves are metal hooks; her mask accentuates her doe-like brown eyes, and her ruby lips stand in stark contrast to the black night. Coiled around her waist hangs a whip. He sees no other weapons at her disposal.

"You were expecting someone else?" is all she says.

A sly grin escapes his lips. Fighting the infamous Batman is one thing; fighting a girl in leather that stands between him and his payday is something else entirely. He stands, wiping the droplets of blood from his cheeks. "You picked the wrong night to go trick or treating, lady."

Clenching his fists, he throws a right hook at his adversary. With lightning fast reflex, she dodges the blow and kicks into his left kneecap, hyper-extending the joint. The pain sears into him like a cattle prod; his nerve endings burn as the pain travels up through his thigh. Numbness sets into his foot and the leg loses all strength as he topples like a falling building.

"You bitch!" he screams through gritted teeth. Pulling a knife, he throws it at her, hoping to at least pierce her leather shell to even the odds. Extraordinarily, she catches the knife and launches it back at twice the speed, striking the tendon in his right shoulder, rendering his arm a useless, dangling appendage.

She casually walks to stand over his limp, broken body, "All you had to do was run away and leave my silver."

Through the pain, he mumbles, "I stole it fair and square, beat you to the score. You never hear of honor among thieves? Why couldn't you just find another mark?"

With the precision of a trained warrior, she delivers a jab from the open palmed heel of her hand to his forehead, knocking him unconscious. Picking up the bag of silver, she struts away with a slinky sway to her hips, "Never said I was going to steal it. I said it was mine."

Retracing the same rooftops vaunted earlier by the burglar, she returns to the scene of the crime, dropping quietly onto the balcony and entering the French doors to the swanky apartment.

Moving through the moonlit rooms without the slightest glance around, she passes the main storage closet in the hallway where the thief found the silver and proceeds to the master bedroom. Opening the walk in closet, she parts the hangers on the left side and reaches down to release a latch on a hidden panel in the wall. She places the bag of silver into the compartment and removes her mask; her curly, brunette locks of hair tumble down around her neck and drape randomly over her shoulders. She places the mask inside the compartment and walks back through the living room into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, she pulls a carton of milk from inside and fills a wine glass from the cabinet nearby.

Sitting delicately on the leather sofa, she crosses her legs, letting the overlapping one dangle ever so slightly, like a wind chime wavering in the lightest breeze. She picks up the remote and pushes a button revealing a built in flat screen television from behind a painting on the wall. Another button and the screen flashes to life, bathing Selina Kyle in the colorful blush of the pixels.

The iridescent glow of the television seeps through the patio doors and flickers across the polished stone floor of the balcony.


	9. Collateral Damage

_Ch. 8: Collateral Damage_

The newly renovated Gotham University hospital boasts the latest in medical equipment and technologies. Highly publicized donations from Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne were praised by many as the wealthy giving back to their community, while others saw it as nothing more than a publicity stunt between the competing billionaires with similar business interests. 

Lex had even flown to Gotham for the grand re-opening of the hospital to cut the ribbon himself, while, surprisingly to the media, Bruce Wayne did not even attend the event. Alfred had admonished his charge for the wanton disregard of his public image, especially since it involved allowing Lex to assert his LuthorCorp agenda. Like any corporate empire, the publicists and marketing strategists at Wayne Enterprises immediately spun the PR faux pas to remind the media that Bruce had been at GUH during the explosion that destroyed the wing and injured staff and patients. They assured the public that Bruce's absence had been out of respect to the loss of that day, as he wanted the hospital, not two wealthy businessmen, to be the focus of the event.

Tonight, however, GUH was destined to become the focus of the entire city.

A graffiti covered ambulance pulls up to the emergency room entrance. Two paramedics pull a gurney from the back and wheel it into the ER. The check-in desk clerk yells to EMT's, "Hey you guys didn't call this in. That better be a DOA or I'm sending you to Gotham Memorial. What are you bringing in?"

The body under the sheet sits up; smeared make up leaves a ghostly complexion, "We've brought a plague of locusts." He pulls a gun from under the sheet and shoots the clerk in the forehead.

Jumping from the gurney, he hurdles the desk and grabs the intercom, "Attention K-mart shoppers, code blue special at the receptionist's desk. Code blue special at the receptionist's desk." The intercom squeals as he drops the microphone to the floor. Four more gunmen appear from the back of the ambulance and storm the building. 

"Now gentleman, if you'll excuse me, I'm needed in surgery. Divert all ambulances to Gotham Memorial." Pushing the button for the secure door to the exam rooms, he begins to saunter in, pausing momentarily, "I've reconsidered. Bring in the gruesome ones. I need some inspiration." Walking through the automatic doors, his thugs open fire on anyone within range.

Bursting into the operating room, the intruder startles the surgeon and his staff, "What the hell? You can't be in here, this is a sterile environment!"

"Well I'm not feeling up to a vasectomy today, Doc, but thanks for the offer. I'm just looking for a friend." He checks the man on the table, then looks disappointingly at the surgeon. "Do you know where Smiley is?"

The doctor still has his hands inside the patient's abdomen, "Who the hell do you think you are? Nurse, page security."

"Obviously, you've misunderstood, I'm here to assist with the operation." He picks up a scalpel and hurls it at the surgeon, implanting the tool through the surgeon's left eye. "Oops, I was aiming for the other one."

The surgeon falls to the ground writhing as the scalpel punctured deep enough to begin a subarachnoid cerebral hemorrhage. The rest of the staff begins to panic as some try to leave the room and others look for anything to use as defense against this madman. Before any of them can leave, he pulls his gun and shoots all but one nurse, who is standing motionless with fear and uncertainty. "Now, where were we, ah yes, have you seen a friend of mine, dear? He has a grin from ear to ear."

The nurse shakes her head no. The beeps and tones coming from the machines attached to the patient roar with a deafening flatline tone. The nurse looks to the intruder, "He needs attention. We're losing him. I need the paddles."

"By all means my dear." The intruder steps aside and allows the nurse to pull the cardio crash cart into position. She charges the system and picks up the paddles. The trespasser offers his hands to her, "Allow me. It's okay." With shaky hands, the nurse delivers the paddles to him. 

He stands a moment over the body, then yells maniacally, "Clear!" 

Shoving the paddles at the nurse, he squeezes the trigger the instant they make contact with her torso. A momentary look of sadness fills her eyes, and then the gaze turns vacant as she flies away from him into the wall and slumps to the ground. "I've always wanted to do that."

Dropping the paddles to the floor, he turns and walks out of the room leaving the wounded to die with the din of the heart monitor. 

The automatic doors to the ER waiting room swing open with the slight hiss of pneumatic power. Emerging like royalty, the madman returns to his cohorts, greeted by the sight of dead and dying patients and staff. Blood is splattered throughout the room as bullet holes trace the pattern of murder left by the intruders. 

One of the henchmen is looking through admission records, "We found him, Mr. J." 

A vicious smile, wide and unsettling, appears on the leader's face. "Gentlemen, it's time for our rounds."

Methodically, the team of bandits makes their way down the hospital hallways, visiting each room to deliver death by knife, gun and any other technique they can employ. A trail of bodies litters behind of victims who tried to escape before the final blows were dealt. 

Stopping at one particular room, Mr. J. reads the name on the door, Catherine Henner, "Leave this one alone Bobby, I liked her work with the Avian Flu."

"Yes, sir." The henchman takes a blood bag and squirts a symbol on the door as notice to the other killers that this room is off limits.

Rounding the corner, the group finds the room they are looking for. Entering alone, Mr. J. walks to the bedside and turns on one of the small wall lights, washing the room in a low glow of light, just enough to see the patient under the covers, holding the sheet over his face with only eyes peeking out above the bedding.

"Hello, Malcolm. Been a while since we've had a chat. How are those rosy cheeks of yours?" He pulls the sheet down slowly from the patient's face to reveal stitching from the corners of the mouth to the bottom of the earlobes. The black sutures leave the patient looking like a rag doll, his bed mussed hair and pallid complexion enhance the resemblance. 

Malcolm's eyes convey his fear at seeing this visitor. The doctors and nurses had advised him to restrict his speaking as much as possible to allow the wounds to heal faster, but he knows he will be forced to answer at least one question tonight.

"Of course you've probably guessed why I'm here tonight. So why don't we get right to it. What did you tell them, Malcolm?"

Malcolm quickly shakes his head no. 

"I want to hear you say it." The visitor stands motionless, silhouetted by the light, showing no expression as he questions the patient.

Forcing the words out with as little mouth movement as possible, the sounds fill the quiet room like a ventriloquist throwing his voice. "I didn't say anything about the police station, Joker. They only wanted to talk about blis/z."

The interrogator studies his foe for a moment before responding, "You know Malcolm, I've recently found my calling in the medical profession," he produces a bone saw from behind his back, "and it is my professional opinion that those stitches are ready to come out."

The Joker lunges toward Malcolm, shoving the blade between Malcolm's pursed lips. As he pushes down, the screams of agony reverberate through the silent hospital.


	10. Shock and Awe

_Ch. 9: Shock and Awe_

Police commissioner Gillian Loeb drives into the Gotham University hospital emergency room drop-off area and parks amid the swirling red, blue and white lights that splash across the stone façade and asphalt ground. The small tick of each light as it makes one revolution on its turntable mixes with the others to create a rhythmic pulse. If listened to closely, it almost resembles a faint heartbeat. 

Loeb and another officer, a short, portly man whose button down shirt bears the unmistakable scent of perspiration masked only by the polyester twill blazer hiding the sweat stains, emerge from the vehicle and cast uneasy glances to each other as they survey the pool of reporters they must wade through to enter the crime scene.

Tugging harshly at his tie, the passenger loosens the knot and pulls it off over his head, tossing the tie randomly into the car before slamming the door. Captain Andy Howe hasn't worked a night shift in Gotham in over five years, since he took over at the 27th precinct. One of the last promotions before Gordon and "The Bat" shook up the old way of doing things. He paid his dues like the rest when he joined the GCPD: homicide cases where the leads went dry as soon as they pointed to prominent mob bosses, witnesses that recanted entire statements about a crime just days after it occurred, and harassment from those in his fraternal brotherhood that had succumbed to the temptations the job offers. 

Andy genuinely felt sorry for the people in the Narrows. Many of them were only guilty of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and yet the city, and he, abandoned them in their time of greatest need. But Andy found it easier to look the other way when it came to the neglect and corruption within the Gotham police force. Eventually it became a way of life for him. It's also what made Commissioner Loeb consider him a "team player" and garnered him the promotion to Captain. 

Looking at the barricaded hospital, he knows it was precisely this quality that prompted the commissioner's phone call to him an hour ago. He's also well aware that what he's about to walk into will strain the bounds of what he can overlook to protect the image of the GCPD and Loeb's re-election campaign. But he remembers, this is what keeps him in the lifestyle to which he's become accustomed. 

With his sport coat hanging open around him, the buttons no longer able to reach one another over his stomach to close, Andy wonders if the extra weight he's put on over the last five years came from feeding off the corruption he pretended not to see. 

He notices Loeb waiting for him to make the first move. Mustering what little confidence he has for facing the men inside, he takes a deep breath, "Let's take care of this, Commissioner."

The men stride into the waiting throng of reporters, silently pushing their way through to the crime scene tape.

Walking into the hospital, body bags line the perimeter of the room; forensic teams, medical examiners and off-duty hospital staff work to assess the extent of the destruction Gotham has suffered. Names of doctors, surgeons, nurses, support staff, patients and visitors are gathered and matched to their corresponding bags.

Teams of officers search each wing to secure the building in a lockdown and question the undisturbed floors for witnesses. From a makeshift command post in the security booth, Jim Gordon coordinates radio calls from the search teams as forensic analysts review footage from the hospital security cameras.

Commissioner Loeb enters the emergency room as the officers standing guard at the door hold back the swarming press. Loeb's gruff, bass voice booms through the corridors and echoes into the rooms, "Gordon!"

Gordon immediately recognizes the all too familiar bark of his boss' voice. Turning the radio over to Detective Bock, Gordon hurries down the hallway to calm the commissioner. It isn't often that Commissioner Loeb makes an appearance at a crime scene, and his presence is never welcome.

He reserves his personal attention for the highest profile cases, those that achieve the most notorious atrocity or which create heinous public relations nightmares for the GCPD.

Tonight qualifies as both.

Gordon is surprised, however, that Loeb has brought company. "Commissioner Loeb, I assure you we are working this as thoroughly as possible." Gordon is well aware of the intense scrutiny that will accompany every aspect of this case.

Loeb glares at Gordon, the veins in his neck bulging with each pulse of blood. "I am not here at 3 a.m. for you to feed me some line about having this under control. I've got 217 dead citizens and a city that wants answers. I'm removing you from this case. Captain Howe from the 27th precinct is now in charge. Andy, these men are yours."

The rotund Andy Howe pushes the sagging comb-over back from his forehead, marches through the emergency room and down the hallway toward the security booth. He can't even bring himself to look at Gordon as he passes.

Gordon pleads to Loeb, "Sir, we're working as fast as we can. The size of the situation requires time. This happened in my district, my precinct can…"

"Your precinct?" growls the commissioner. "Your precinct is still understaffed and trying to get its house in order from the fiasco with those 12 terrorists. You expect me to let you handle this the way you did that? The mayor will have my head and the city will put me out of office."

"With all due respect, sir…" Gordon attempts to reassure Loeb, and yet he realizes the commissioner isn't wrong.

"With all due respect! You're lucky you have a job. Have you heard what officers are saying about you? They say you allowed that massacre to continue unabated. That you permitted that costumed vigilante to confront those terrorists while you stood by idly. And now, under your jurisdiction, a second massacre, of innocent civilians, happens and we have no suspects apprehended, and nothing to offer this city in response except to say we are working as fast as we can."

At the ER entrance, two women flash FBI badges and are pointed to the screaming commissioner. Both wear black business suits; the tall redhead with flowing curls sports a knee length skirt that swishes mildly with the long strides of her legs. The shorter one walks faster in her pantsuit, her petite frame working double time to keep up with her associate. Her dirty blond hair is cropped to a pixie hairstyle.

Interrupting his tirade against Gordon, the taller of the two makes the introductions. "Excuse us. We're from the FBI; we are the profilers you requested."

Loeb curtails his anger, and calmly updates the women. "Hello. I apologize for the outburst. I'm commissioner Gillian Loeb."

"Dr. Chase Meridian, and this is my colleague Dr. Harleen Quinzel." 

"Thank you for coming on short notice. We have a command post down the hall. Captain Andy Howe is awaiting your arrival. He will give you access to anything you need."

The women nod their appreciation and glance at the belittled James Gordon as they walk toward the command post.

Gordon waits for the women to move beyond earshot, then asks about their surprising arrival. "Do you really think we need two profilers for this psycho?"

Loeb answers flatly, "Dr. Quinzel is assigned to the Joker. I've asked Dr. Meridian to profile your Batman. We're taking this city back Jim, and I want to know what I'm facing."

Gordon isn't sure how to respond. He opens his mouth, but Loeb cuts in before he can speak. "Go home Jim, and be glad I'm not having you evaluated. But remember this, if you associate with this vigilante, you'll face me, Internal Affairs, and the wrath of this city."

Gordon begrudgingly accepts his warning and nods, resigned to call it a night. He bums a cigarette and match from a nearby detective and wanders out through the crowd. Walking around the building, he comes to a dark alley, near the loading dock to the morgue and walks into the darkness.

He strikes the match on the stone wall of the hospital. It flames momentarily, but fails to light. "Damn." He looks around; "Don't suppose you have a light on that belt of yours?"

From within the darkness, a blue flame appears. The hiss of a propane cartridge gets louder as it approaches Gordon. Stepping from the shadows, Batman offers the flame to Gordon.

He lights his cigarette and inhales deeply. It has been 10 years since he last smoked. It hurts more than he remembers as the smoke fills his lungs.

Gordon blows the smoke into the crisp night air. "You wanna tell me what happened here?"

Batman stands motionless as he looks at Gordon. "You've seen the security tapes."

Gordon looks back down the alley to make sure he hasn't been followed. "I saw him. Didn't see you anywhere. I want to know what happened off-camera."

Batman lowers his head; the flicker of shame in his eyes does not go unnoticed by the astute officer. "I arrived too late."

Gordon gives up his return to smoking and drops the cigarette, crushing it with his foot. "Probably better we do this the right way anyway." He turns to walk away.

"Jim, I know this partnership has been difficult…"

Gordon spins to face the masked man. "This went way past difficult a long time ago."

Batman acknowledges the sentiment. "I never intended to compromise you. I can back off."

Gordon wonders if the man under the cowl is capable of being offended. "You have made a difference; no matter what others say. You should know, I'm losing support in the department. They've brought in profilers for you and the Joker. They'll be watching me to try to get you. I won't be useful to you."

"It was never about that Jim. I saw you as an equal." Batman admires this policeman more than he can put into words. He thinks back to the night his parents died and how Gordon spent hours with him, making him feel safe and secure enough to describe the horrific event that shaped the rest of his life. That night, the young detective was given a broken boy who held the secret to catching a murderer and, with patience and compassion, helped an adolescent Bruce reassemble the busted puzzle of his psyche enough to get through those first few days. Batman's memories shatter like mirrors breaking at the sound of Gordon's voice again. 

"But we've become liabilities to each other." Gordon studies his colleague's eyes, looking for some sign of emotion that his words are cutting through the armored shell to the man beneath.

Neither one wants to say it, but they both know this is the end of their partnership.

Batman nods in agreement. Then with an unwavering, even tone, "It's in the best interest of the city." He pauses for a moment, considering the many ways to say goodbye. "Look into the man from room 314. He's your key to what happened here tonight. He received 'special' attention." Saying goodbye would mean accepting this alliance is truly finished.

In sharp contrast to his usual exits, Batman turns and walks to the fire escape of a nearby building. Climbing the ladder, he pauses to look at Gordon. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Ascending the metal rails, Batman disappears once again into the night.

Gordon stands a moment peering into the blackened void. "It's worth a lot." A fleeting thought races through his mind as he wonders if he has just severed the final tie that anchors the Batman to moral boundaries.

He shudders at the thought of what a truly rogue agent could be capable, as he clutches his jacket closed and makes his way back to his car.

Watching from atop the adjacent roof, Batman wants to call out, to reassure Jim he won't let him, or the city, down. But, the thought stirs within, _what if I already have_.


	11. Visiting Hours

_Ch. 10: Visiting Hours_

Snow falls over Gotham. The flakes silently cascade through the city, surfing the gusty winds that cut through the canyons between buildings. The ebb and tide of the breeze twists the specks like a gymnast performing a routine. Each glitters randomly with the iridescent reflections of streetlights.

Watching this ballet of floating precipitation gradually cover his city in a clinging blanket, Batman notes how the harsh lines that define Gotham vanish with it. The garbage and grime are covered, if only for a time. The dark corners and sharp outcroppings of buildings are replaced by smooth, curving contours. The city seems brighter. Happy. Innocent.

Letting the snowfall clear his mind, he breathes in the cold, moist air. He contemplates the decision he must now make. Alfred has always maintained this work is more burden that one man can shoulder. With Jim Gordon, it always seemed surmountable, as if there was an ally who could be tagged into play when needed. And there is Alfred, the ever dutiful assistant ready to patch wounds, research background information or supply a warm plate of food when Bruce becomes too engrossed in his endeavors as Batman to remember to eat.

There was also the unexpected support of Lucius Fox at Wayne Enterprises, the man truly responsible for the technology that allows Batman to operate. When Lucius deduced what Bruce was attempting, he could have walked away, or worse, gone public. Instead, he stalwartly sustained the image of Wayne Enterprises while discretely positioning it to continue to provide Bruce the cutting edge innovations that keep him a step ahead of the criminal element.

In addition to these men, Bruce has only shared his secret with one other, Rachel Dawes. He wonders if she would still be alive if she hadn't known. He pushes that question out of his mind. The issue is trust, not personal sacrifice. All three kept his secret.

He stares down at Gotham Memorial hospital, the second hospital he's been to on this very long night. It's 5 a.m.; morning rounds begin in thirty minutes. His time to make this decision is running out.

Leaping from the ledge, he flares the black cape and activates the small electrical surge that stiffens the material into a glider. Floating across the snow covered ravine, he uses a small burst from the JPL cartridges built into his boots to maintain his altitude. Touching down on the hospital rooftop, the cape billows as the charge is released and falls limp to cloak the dark figure.

Pulling metal carabiners from a holster, he clips them into his utility belt. Unraveling a nylon cable, he presses a button to expand the spring-loaded grappling hook and laces the cable through the carabiners. Attaching the hook to the steel window washer abseil points, he eases over the ledge and rappels down the side of the building.

While the building has been retrofitted with some modern amenities since its construction in the 1950's, certain original aspects such as fully operational casement windows were never replaced with fixed panes. Many patients appreciate this feature, especially during extended stays when fresh air becomes a luxury. At the moment, Batman is thankful for them as well, as they will make his clandestine entry much easier.

* * *

Waking in the dark hospital room, the cardiac telemetry monitor attached to electrodes on Jean Paul Valley's chest strobes with the flash of the red LED light signaling a need for new batteries. He makes a mental note to remind the nurse when she comes in for his morning pulse/ox reading.

He thinks for a moment that he is adapting to the nurses' schedules and waking about the time they start their morning rounds. Then, he remembers it was that dream that woke him again.

It is the same each time. He was 13 years old when his older brother Luke pulled into the driveway with the black 1982 Pontiac Trans-Am. The car had obviously not been taken care of by previous owners, the sun-faded dashboard was cracking, with tufts of foam cushioning peeking out from beneath it's hiding place. The black enamel clearcoat finish had also seen better days. The hood was beginning to blister, having spent too much time in the sun; the skin of the car was now showing signs of severe sunburn. The passenger side flip-top headlight refused to close, allowing the car to wink at passersby, as if to say don't judge me by the way I look; I can still blow away the competition on the rode.

Luke worked two jobs that summer to buy the car. No matter how it looked, it was the most beautiful car in the world to him. He had already picked up his friends, Eric and Will, for the inaugural ride around the neighborhood. At the house, the boys jumped out to admire the steel beast.

Jean Paul rushed out to see his brother's reward for diligence and perseverance. Luke waved for his little brother to come over to the driver's side and opened the door for him. "Take a seat J.P.; see how it feels."

Jean Paul ran around the car to accept his brother's invitation. Sliding into the bucket seat, the worn tan leather was slippery. The numerous pedals on the floor were foreign to him, and the dashboard looked nothing like the one in that black car on television.

Luke bent down to talk to his brother, "I promised you a ride when I got her. You ready to go?"

Jean Paul nodded excitedly. Luke motioned to the passenger side seat, "You take shotgun. You can be my navigator."

Jean Paul climbed over the console to the passenger side, as Eric and Will loaded into the backseat through the driver's side door. Luke dropped into the seat and turned the key, the engine growling as the car the car shook itself awake. The boys melted back into the seats as the car sped down the street. The sun was beginning to set behind them as they drove toward the lights of the downtown area.

Pulling up to a stoplight beside a restored '69 red Mach 1 Mustang, Will and Eric shouted taunts from the backseat in an attempt to coerce Luke into racing the veteran muscle car next to him. Revving his engine in challenge, Luke looked over to the Mustang's driver.

The man behind the wheel glanced to the boys with a cunning smile and answered their dare with an engine snarl of his own. The traffic light flipped to green and the Trans-Am jumped from the line ahead of the Mustang. It was a small lead and the Mustang crept closer by the second.

Barreling down the street, the cars seemed to be racing the oncoming darkness as much as each other. The black Pontiac began to blend into the dusk.

A sedan pulling up the exit ramp from an underground garage of one of the many office buildings that lined the downtown district, eased out gradually to peer down the street for oncoming traffic. In the twilight, the driver only spotted the red mustang, and began to pull out further to make the turn onto the street.

It was Eric that first spotted the sedan, thrusting a pointed finger from the backseat with a scream. Luke slammed the horn, and the sedan froze with its front end sitting directly in the way of the speeding Trans-Am.

Luke swerved, hoping there was still enough space between him and the Mach 1 to veer past the car. They heard the squeal of the Mustang's brakes as they crossed into his lane, and the headlights of the still unmoving sedan flashed through the cabin like a strobe light.

Pulling back into his lane, Luke eased off the gas to keep the car under control. The Mustang caught pace with the boys and cruised along side them. Jean Paul looked over at the Mustang's driver as the man shouted obscenities from his open window.

Then, the driver produced a black handgun and pointed it at them. Before Jean Paul could say anything, he saw the blast of flame from the barrel. A shrill whistle by his ear masked the sound of the window shattering beside him. He felt the car jerk to the left and looked over to see Luke trying to hold in the blood spouting from a wound on his neck.

The steering wheel slipped from his brother's hand as his eyes fluttered. Instinctively, the three other boys all grabbed for it, pulling in different directions until the car began to spin. This is where Jean Paul wakes each time he has the nightmarish flashback in his sleep.

Luke died on the street that night, with Jean Paul crying as he kneeled on the asphalt next to his brother. The Mustang had been stolen earlier that evening, and by the time the car was recovered, the shooter was long gone.

Jean Paul feels the numbness in his legs and wonders if this is how Luke felt in those last few moments of consciousness. He wonders if the searing pain from the penetration of the bullet had subsided enough for Luke to feel the loss of connection with his limbs. He has come to realize the loss of contact with your own body creates a special kind of mourning. It is the kind of sorrow that causes amputees to feel their missing appendages. It is the equivalent of watching your body die a lingering death, one piece at a time. And Jean Paul feels that demise from the waist down.

He lies in the hospital bed each day waiting for some complication to finish the job from the waist up. A gambler could choose from a collection of life threatening conditions on which to bet, all caused by the gunshot wound he received at the police station incursion.

The hospital staff diligently monitors for blood clots, and keeps vigilant watch for any sign of autonomic dysreflexia. Since he awoke in the hospital, Jean Paul often wonders if death would be a favorable alternative to a life trapped by paralysis.

He is pulled from his abyss of thoughts and memories by the crisp breeze blowing across the bed. He hasn't had the window open since he was admitted. The night shift wasn't apt to open windows randomly either. Focusing his eyes to the spears of light that streak in past the partially closed blinds, he can see enough of the silhouetted figure to make out the distinctive characteristics: two points on the top of his head, and a cape enveloping his body.

"What do you want?" Jean Paul is in no mood for visitors during regular hours, much less when he is determined to wallow in his own grief.

"I read your chart. The bullet damaged your T6 vertebra. With existing conventional medicine and rehabilitation, you may recover some tactile reactivity and motor function, but your police career is over." Batman offers no apologies for the tragedy of lives and careers cut short that night to get to him.

"Because of you." Jean Paul, however, wants the cloaked cavalier to be fully aware of his domino effect presence in this city.

The Batman came here resolute in his agenda. He won't let resentment cloud his course. "What if I could offer you another vocational path?"

"Taking away my ability to walk and use the bathroom not enough for you? You need to set me up for something else?"

The man behind the mask is disappointed in himself for not expecting this sour salutation; he assumed that, like himself, a cop would keep separate personal and professional demeanors. "Later today, you are going to be offered the chance to participate in a trial of an experimental medication that could heal your injury completely. That part is unconditional."

Jean Paul wonders briefly how this rogue hunter is able to speak the future with such certainty, and studies the small portion of the face visible for a 'tell' to signify any sort of bluff. "What's the conditional part?"

"If you join the trial and the serum works, I'll visit you again with an offer to work with me. However, if you decline the trial or speak of this to anyone, you will never see me again."

Jean Paul sits silently, weighing the value of the offer handed to him. He considers whether it is a bribe to coerce yet another officer to fall in line behind the vigilante, or if he is merely being manipulated as an asset in one man's private war. He also momentarily contemplates if this is a way of trying to make amends; an apology of sorts for the damage done in his name.

The door to the hospital room opens, allowing light from the hallway to tumble into the room. It fleetingly blinds Jean Paul as his eyes adjust to the flood. A nurse wheels in the pulse/ox vitals monitor and is surprised to find her patient awake. "Up early today, I see."

Jean Paul looks to the corner of room, now overflowing with light, to see his visitor has vanished with the shadows. "Just have a lot on my mind, I guess."

* * *

The hatch to the Tumbler closes and the dashboard lights up with the swipe of a coded remote key. Pushing a button on the control board, the pre-programmed female voice of the Tumbler's computer is activated.

"_Satellite uplink. Secure line to Lucius Fox."_

It is extremely useful to Batman that VENOM labs is a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprises. Now Batman must rely on the power of Bruce Wayne to fulfill his part of the bargain.

"Lucius, make the necessary arrangements for Gotham Memorial patient Jean Paul Valley to be admitted to the VENOM serum trials."


	12. An Offer He Can't Refuse

_I know my updates take forever and I was hoping to have this whole story done before the new movie premiered, but things just haven't been going my way lately with hospital visits, wedding planning and house repairs. Then there is that pesky thing called a job that I'm expected to show up for every once in a while. If you can just be patient with my lethargic updates, it will be worth it (I hope)…_

_Ch. 11: An Offer He Can't Refuse_

Detective Renée Montoya and SWAT Team Lieutenant Bill Petit stare through the one way glass into the one remaining interrogation room of the 41st precinct that wasn't damaged during the terrorist siege six days ago. They watch Dick Grayson as he sits silently, gazing into a cup of coffee as if it holds the secrets to the universe.

The young man's stoic demeanor amazes Renee. He was brought in yesterday after his arrest of Joseph Kerr shut down the Trigate Bridge for two hours at midday to remove debris and assess if there were any compromises to the structural integrity of the overpass. He was told he'd only be held until his story checked out, but the ensuing chaos at the hospital scrambled the agendas of every precinct in town, and he, like many other cases in progress, was put on hold.

Many in his position would not have maintained a calm perspective through the night, locked in an interrogation room with only the occasional check in to provide food and drink. The windowless room offers nothing but one's own reflection, a reminder to both guilty and innocent alike that, in this space, you are the center of attention and no breath or blink of an eye goes unnoticed.

To Dick Grayson, however, time alone automatically takes his mind back through the years, to an era when he wasn't obsessed with the name Joseph Kerr.

Growing up, young Dick Grayson always led an unconventional childhood. His mother gave birth to him in a circus supply tent, surrounded by a gypsy fortuneteller, a lion tamer, and several clowns while his father performed high above a sold out big top tent at a traveling circus visiting Blüdhaven.

Niccola, the Gypsy, also happened to be a midwife and promised Richard Grayson that his wife and child would remain safe in her care when the circus owners, Mr. Harly and Mr. Zucco, forced _The Flying Grayson's_ to perform that night. While Dick's father, uncle and older brother performed on the trapeze lines above, his mother Elsie and the rest of the circus clan were working to keep their promise of a safe delivery. While Bruno the Strong Man watched the smaller children, Niccola made the necessary preparations using the clowns as her assistants. Dick always smirks at the thought of what it must've looked like with a Gypsy shouting for items in a mix of Russian and English to a room full of clowns in full make-up while a gigantic weightlifter entertained 3 other children by letting them climb over his back and arms as if they were scaling a tree.

Elsie had been through this many times before; after all, young Dick would be the fifth Grayson she brought into this world. Mr. Harly and Mr. Zucco already had big plans for the family when all of the children were old enough to join the acrobatic act. They were already promoting _The Flying Grayson's_ as America's most daring family, and repeatedly petitioning Richard to remove the safety net for the most high profile shows.

As the years went by, Dick watched as each of his siblings joined the family endeavor. Night and day, he would sit in awe as his parents, uncle, brothers Jared, Nicholas and Evan, and his sister Elisabeth left audiences breathless with the intricate and precisely executed routines that had become the trademark of the Grayson family. There truly was no other acrobatic act in the country that could compare to the show they gave.

He had been to every major city in the country, and even some smaller towns that had fairgrounds or sports stadiums. Mr. Zucco, co-owner of the circus, was a genius at marketing the flying family to audiences, and even began setting up performances for the Grayson's outside of the circus.

Dick began his formal training into the acrobatics profession at age 7, but had been swinging on the practice trapeze and balancing on the low wire as far back as he could remember. His mother always joked that he knew how to swing across platforms before he knew how to walk. Whether it was true or not was uncertain, but it didn't take long for it to become an established urban legend in the circus community.

He would sit at each show with whichever carny worker could watch him while the family was performing. Between shows, he would spend time with the other performers and crew members learning the secrets of their trades, whether it was the mechanical workings of the convoy trucks or the machinations behind the rigged games that kept players from winning those enormous stuffed animals hanging on the walls of the game trailers along the midway. The entire circus was his family, and each helped to raise him to adulthood through their own cultural beliefs.

Niccola, the gypsy and her husband Sergei Prolytov, the lion tamer, were like surrogate parents to the young man; they would take him on day trips while the rest of his family practiced routines for upcoming shows. Niccola was well versed in languages and world philosophies and acted as a tutor, instructing Dick through readings such as Plato's _Republic_, the _Tao Te Ching_, Vladimir Propp's _Morphology of the Folk Tale_ and Dostoevsky's _Crime and Punishment._ Niccola also stressed the importance of such academic pursuits as Alfred Korzybski's General Semantics and Joseph Campbell's theories on comparative mythology and mythic imagery. She would often explain to Dick that, as a fortuneteller, it was not so much knowledge of the future her patrons required, but a way to make sense of their pasts. The mind, she would say, needs assistance connecting the moments of one's life in a reasoned, if not always logical, way, so it can see the progression from one moment to the next. In prognosticating a person's destiny, she was actually aiding the mind in settling the conflicts of the past that have left a person uneasy or uncomfortable with what has come before, creating a sense of tranquility for what is to come next.

When not in tutoring with Niccola, Dick would join Sergei in the stables watching as he trained the big cats to perform tricks. Sergei understood the instincts of animals. He would explain to Dick the delicate balance of respecting the power of ferocious predators while administering a presence that the animals responded to passively. Dick would learn of different types of psychological conditioning and how behavior could be reinforced or diminished in any species. Sergei would also show how the animals learned to associate a dependence on him for the basics of survival, making him a welcome presence in their cages.

Once he began his training as one of _The Flying Grayson's_, Dick still managed to find time to visit Niccola and Sergei for the lessons they imparted.

The first time Dick remembers traveling to Gotham, he was 12 years old. He's sure he must've been to this city well before that with the circus, but years had passed between performances in Gotham. He remembers the circus convoy passing Gotham several times in its coastal trek from city to city. He once asked around as to why the circus never stopped in Gotham; usually he was given vague answers ranging from blissful ignorance of the issue to a more ominous warning that the circus would lose everything if it ever tried Gotham again.

One night, a clown who had overindulged in his whiskey after payday was more than willing to talk about the last time the circus played Gotham. He explained how Mr. Zucco often supplemented the circus income by swindling the locals with confidence schemes. The last time the show was in Gotham, Zucco befriended a man named Joseph Kerr, who claimed to have access to a large amount of cash that needed to be "cleaned". Kerr wouldn't say where he obtained the cash, just that he would be willing to set up a deal with Zucco through the show's accounting for a percentage.

Of course, Zucco agreed to help, but said he couldn't use the circus books. However, he knew of someone in Gotham that could be of service. Zucco set up the appointment, saying he needed to collect some money from his associate while he was in town anyway. On the appointed night, Kerr and Zucco arrived at the docks with the money, and a man wearing a red hood met them. The stranger handed Zucco a case full of money that they considered a return on investment. The hooded man then asked what he could do for Mr. Kerr. Kerr explained that he worked for someone, who was to remain unnamed, that needed a legitimate paper trail for his income. He also said that if the transaction was successful, there could be future dealings.

The man in the hood nodded his understanding, saying he could provide the necessary documentation, but then offered another solution. He explained he could authenticate the funds and provide the same 'return on investment' that Zucco had received. The offer was too tempting for Kerr.

The Red Hood took the money and set a date for another meeting with Kerr to reclaim his earnings with documentation to legitimize the funds. When that date came, Kerr was left standing alone in the warehouse, with no face to put to the con except for Zucco. Zucco had hired the man in the red hood to accept the money and the two met later for Zucco to retrieve his prize, assuming his mark was just a bagman who would end up taking the fatal fall for the loss of the cash. Unbeknownst to Zucco at the time, Kerr was not merely a bagman for the mafia, but the illegitimate son of mob boss Carmine Falcone. As Falcone was rather fond of his son's resourcefulness and tendency to resolve conflicts with violence, he was given the chance to track down the money.

Adopting the moniker of the Red Hood, Kerr tracked Zucco's other marks, discovering along the way all of Zucco's techniques as a grifter, including the use of the man in the red hood as a shill in some of the more complex tricks.

Eventually, Kerr was able to find Zucco in Santa Marta, during the west coast tour of the circus. Taking with him a handful of Sgarristas, the made men of the family, and a red hood, Kerr paid a visit to his swindler. He retrieved the money, left Zucco with a permanent limp and a stern warning that he was not to bring his act to Gotham again.

Young Dick Grayson listened intently to the story, taking in every suspenseful moment with excitement. Growing up in the environment of the circus, things most children would see as fanciful became almost mundane to him. He was even accustomed to minor deceptions being presented to thrill seeking audiences through the illusionists and pitchmen on the midway, but to hear a story of true criminal deception, involving the mob no less, was mesmeric to the young adolescent.

He questioned the inebriated clown as to how he knew the sordid details of the rip off. With a snort of laughter, the performer looked at the young man and said, "Who d'ya think the boss hired to be the man in the hood?"

The circus was performing a week in Blüdhaven when Sergei and Niccola took Dick to Gotham for a day trip. Zucco had ordered all crew and performers to stay out of Gotham during the week, but Niccola had a sister in the Narrows whom she hadn't seen in years. Of course, the curious youngster couldn't pass up an opportunity to see a new city and convinced his parents to allow him to go with the Prolytov's for a quick visit.

They took a bus from Blüdhaven to the Helene street depot at the edge of the Narrows. Dick enviously watched the elevated train hurtle past high above the city as the bus lumbered around the surface streets to reach it's destination.

The long walk from the bus station to the Russian district didn't impress Dick either. It wasn't the effort of walking that was unappealing to the child, but each constricted alley looked indistinguishable from the last. Trash littered the passageways, and each face he saw had the same vacant, tattered veneer, as if the soul of each inhabitant had been hollowed out by desperation.

The visit to Niccola's sister, Anastasia, was brief. He was told Ana was not well that day. He would later find out Ana was dying of lead poisoning, as was every tenant in that building since the slum lord refused to replace the aging plumbing with modern pipes. Of course, lead pipes were against the zoning laws of Gotham, but never did inspectors travel to the Narrows to enforce the codes, leaving landlords to rule their tenements with feudal discretion.

On the way back to the bus, Dick thought he recognized Roddy, one of the circus crew workers, talking to someone on the doorstep of a building down the street. Dick called out to him, at which the man looked up and quickly stepped inside, closing the door. Niccola and Sergei had not seen him, but both quickly reminded Dick that none of the circus was to be here, and even if it was Roddy, he wanted secrecy as much as they did.

Upon their return to Blüdhaven, Dick went looking for Roddy to apologize for calling out to him in Gotham. He searched the entire crew area of the circus and finally began asking around for him. He was told Roddy had quit that morning, collected his final paycheck and left without saying goodbye to anyone. No one knew why or where the man was going. Remembering the clandestine nature of their trip, Dick said nothing about seeing a man who resembled Roddy in Gotham earlier that day.

As the evening show time approached, Dick dutifully made his way to the grandstand by way of the 'back yard' paths used by crew and performers. Bumping into a clown exiting the clown alley tent, he excused himself and kept walking, but the strangest thing was he didn't recognize the performer with whom he collided. Dick knew all the clowns both in and out of make up. This one was completely unrecognizable.

He decided to stop by the cookhouse to grab a drink for the show. Entering the tent, he heard Boss Zucco arguing with someone in the darkness. Zucco seemed to be defending the circus' right to be in Bludhaven. "You said stay out of Gotham. This isn't Gotham. Maybe you shoulda been more specific."

His opponent talks in hushed, but stern tones, "Be careful what you ask for Zucco. I can be imaginatively detailed with my responses. You've been away a while, so I'll grant that maybe you didn't know we run Blüdhaven now too, which basically makes it part of Gotham, my Gotham."

Dick skulks to get a view of whom the boss is speaking to. Peering around a barrel, he sees a group of unrecognizable clowns holding Zucco while he talks to a man wearing a red hood. Zucco looks defiantly at the hooded man, "I'm not leaving until our contract is up. Bludhaven was not part of the deal and your father…"

The Red Hood silences Zucco by pulling a knife and easing it into the right corner of Zucco's mouth. "My father is not the one you should be afraid of."

With a flick of his wrist he cuts a small slice up into Zucco's cheek. Zucco winces as blood mixes with saliva to flow down his jaw, staining his white shirt. Cleaning the blood from the knife with one of the clown henchmen's handkerchiefs, the Red Hood motions to let Zucco go.

Falling to the ground, Zucco grabs his face to put pressure on the wound and mutters to his assailant, "Kerr, you arrogant bastard! You got your money back years ago, why won't you just let this go?"

"Because no one treats me like a bumbling clown."

Zucco sneers, remembering the hooded man in front of him was once a naïve, feeble boy he duped without effort, "maybe you ought to tell your old man that and he'll let you stop wearing that mask as a reminder."

The Red Hood slides the swathe of fabric from his head, causing Zucco to become pallid with horror. "As you can see, my father had another method of reminding me of the past. Of course it would be impolite to leave without giving you something to think of me."

He picks up a cast iron pan and pummels the circus boss, the faint hum of _'Think of Me'_ from _Phantom of the Opera_ eerily echoing from within the fray. Each swing crescendos with the crackle and pop of bones breaking. With a final swing like a maestro ending his orchestral performance, the assailant gently lowers the skillet to a nearby table, delicately smoothes his wavy hair back off his face with a blood splattered hand and bows to his victim before turning, straightening his jacket and quietly walking away.

Dick hides behind the barrels until the thug and his henchmen leave, with the bloody body of Zucco laying on the ground. The boy crawls over to Zucco, he reaches out hesitantly to see if the man is still alive. He pauses momentarily as he searches for a part of the body not soaked in blood.

He pokes Zucco in the arm, then quickly pulls away. Reaching in again, a bloody hand grab's his wrist. Zucco can barely see through his already swollen face. Dick can only stammer out the man's name.

"M…Mr. Zucco?"

Zucco's jaw is broken, but Dick can see his lips move and leans in closer to hear the low, raspy whisper, "Save them. He'll kill us all." The grip on Dick's wrist loosens and the boy runs out of the tent.

Running to the stable, he finds Sergei unconscious, with whip marks across his face and chest. The tiger cages are empty with the gates swinging freely. The young Grayson catches a glimpse of a clown moving past the back entrance of the stable toward the big top. He races out toward the arena where his parents are performing.

He reaches the performance tent just in time to see the rogue clowns cut the guy wires that provide tension to the tent poles. The poles begin to sway as the weighty canvas exerts its pressure on the unsupported poles.

Looking up he watches as his family is caught off guard by the movement. His brother, Evan, loses footing on the platform and slips off, but is caught by his uncle. His sister Elisabeth was in a mid air tumble to be caught by her brother Jared on a swinging trapeze, but the sudden loss of momentum cut short his swing and his sister fell, hitting the high wire on her way down to safety net. Their mother has just started out on the high wire on the unicycle, where the two younger Graysons on the trapeze were to grab her on the next pass over and lift her skyward, however, when Elisabeth hit the wire, the shockwave rippled through the line. Elsie managed to kick the unicycle from beneath her and grab onto the wire with her left hand. The still vibrating steel cable seared into the nerves of her hand, sending pain down her arm.

Jared's trapeze sways in the middle of the tent, with no force left to make it to either platform; he dangles by his legs, until he is forced to dismount to the safety net below. Nicholas and Richard cling to the wobbling platform on the other side of the tent. Richard orders his son to climb down.

Elisabeth looks up from the safety net in time to see the platforms buckle under the pressure of the tent. The high wire snaps as the metal balconies fall and the poles collapse in on them. The safety net gives and sinks as the Graysons are crushed beneath the weight of the acrobatic equipment and poles.

Hysteric patrons run for the exits as they watch the tent slowly implode. As Dick tries to make his way to his family, he is unable to push through the chaotic exodus of the crowd. He runs back to the stable to awaken Sergei for help, but as he enters the stable he hears the low growl of one of the cats standing watch over her still unconscious keeper. Sheena, the white Bengal tigress had returned to Sergei's side. Her motherly instincts were to protect the injured tamer and, in her eyes, anyone who entered the tent was a threat.

Jumping to her feet from Sergei's side, she lowers her torso into crouching position and positions herself for a leap. Remembering everything Sergei had told him, Dick kept eye contact with the animal as he slowly bent down to pick up Sergei's whip. The confined space of the stable restricts the beast's maneuverability, but she is still a deadly opponent. Sergei would often remind Dick the whip can only be used to get the animal's attention; it is not a weapon for striking the cats.

Snapping the whip to his left, Dick shouts commands he has heard Sergei use with the animals. "Stoy!" Russian for stop. It is the end command used with the animals to get them to stop whatever they are doing.

Sheena holds her posture, teeth bared. "Nil-ja! Stoy!" Adding an emphatic 'NO' to the command gets the animals attention and she calms. Dick searches for one more command to put the animal at rest, "Sid…no. Sajish." The tiger sits on cue.

Walking over to the beast, Dick pats her head softly, "Maladiets." He looks over to Sergei, who is beginning to regain consciousness, "Sergei, my family needs your help."

Sergei wearily gets up, and lifts a hand to feel the blood seeping from the wounds on his face. He walks Sheena to her cage and locks her in. Following Dick from the tent, he hears what has happened. They burst into the vacated arena, exactly as Dick had left it, the arena floor covered in debris and the tent sagging from lack of support. Sergei runs toward the fallen platforms and shouts back to Dick, "Find more help to lift!"

Running from the big top, the young Grayson enters a fray like nothing he has seen before. The circus has been destroyed. Fires have erupted in tents and trailers; crew and performers fight for their lives against the same group of clowns Dick had seen at the cookhouse earlier.

Bruno, the strong man, is protecting as many as he can, swinging a sledgehammer into anyone who attacks. He motions for Dick to come to him. As the boy runs toward him, yelling that they had to go back to the big top to help his parents, the sound of a gun rings out through the din.

Bruno arches his back and stumbles. He lurches forward and onto his knees in front of the boy. Dick reaches out for him as blood begins to trickle from his mouth. As Bruno falls to the ground, Dick sees the hole in his back where the blood pours out.

From the smoke filled midway behind Bruno, a man holding a gun in one hand and the red hood in the other smiles a broad, snide grin as he vanishes into the smoldering haze.

A battered clown approaches the group; streaks of makeup run down his face, "No strong guy to protect you now, huh?" Dick grabs the sledgehammer and drags it in front of him. The clown laughs as the prepubescent youngster faces him down. "You can't even lift that thing kid."

Dick pulls the hammer up to his side like a jousting pole, locks it underneath his arm and charges the clown. The brute has little time to react before the hammer butts into his torso, knocking the breath from his lungs and throwing him to the ground.

Dick sends the group of huddled refugees back to the big top to find Sergei. A scream rings out from across the midway. It is the unmistakable sound of Niccola. Dick runs unflinchingly into the smoke to her trailer. He could find his way there blindfolded, so the blackness of the smoke as it stingingly penetrates his eyes cannot deter him from running as fast as he can to her.

From within the darkness of the ashen air, he smells that familiar smell of incense that always filled Niccola's trailer. Although, this is much stronger, as if her entire reserve is burning at once. Then he realizes, her trailer is on fire.

Niccola's trailer was modeled after the wooden gypsy wagons of the dustbowl carnivals. Small window slits at the top provided airflow and ventilation, while slats of wood riveted to a modern fiberglass shell beneath formed the exterior. While these materials allowed for the reproduction of an antique aesthetic fairly inexpensively, it also allowed the cart to burn effortlessly with the wood fueling flames that can turn the fiberglass shell into a molten mausoleum.

Her door has been locked shut. The heat from the fire has already charged the metal with the potential to scorch anyone who tries to unlatch it as Dick finds when he attempts to unlock it. He screams for Niccola, as beats of his heart pass for what seem like an eternity, there is nothing but silence from behind the locked door.

Then a feeble voice makes its way through the roar of the blaze and the crackling of the wood, "Dick, help me."

Looking around for something to open the door, he sees the knife thrower's case of daggers and rapiers lying open on the ground nearby. Scrambling to the container, the boy weighs the steel blades in his hands to determine which is heaviest to affect the slatted door.

Grabbing a long rapier sword, he slides the blade underneath the top hinge until the curved tip reemerges near the top of the door. Resting the point on the frame of the door, he pries upward with the hilt, loosening the nails that bind the hinge to the trailer.

As the top of the door pops free from the frame, it sways as smoke and heat pour out from behind it. Tossing the sword aside, Dick jumps to grab the top of the wobbling wood, letting gravity pull him, and the door, back to the ground. The slats around the bottom hinges snap as they tear away.

The door falls from its bindings and hits the ground with a thud, spewing dirt and sparks into the already murky air. Within the smoke-filled trailer, he can barely make out the form of Niccola lying on the floor.

Running into the plume, he finds her unconscious, a cloth wrapped around her arm where she burned herself trying to escape. He tries to wake her but there is no air for her to breathe. He pulls her to his chest to drag her from the inferno.

Piercing the blackness of the smoke, drops of fire begin raining from above all around them. Looking up, Dick sees the roof is burning through and embers have begun to melt from the ceiling above.

Pulling with all his strength, he slides his friend from the flames. As they move, the fire devours the base of the trailer, dismembering the wheels and axles like legs severed from the body. The trailer lurches at the loss of its foundation and the right side falls to the ground. The detached axle stabs through the floor beside Dick, causing him to gasp in fright, inhaling the aroma of noxious carbon filled air.

The air burns as it enters his lungs. Immediately, his chest heaves as he tries to cough out the smoke. But as his nostrils search for fresh air to replace the poisoned vapors in his lungs, he finds there is none to breathe.

The trailer suddenly seems blacker than before and weakness creeps into his arms and legs. He pushes past the pain in his chest and the burgeoning blindness. He knows where the exit should be; he just has to trust his instincts to get there.

Each step feels shorter than the last, until he takes a step and there is no floor beneath him. Falling down the step rail of the trailer, Dick and Niccola roll onto the ground as the wagon is engulfed in flames.

The following weeks were a continuation of the disaster with one unbearable tragedy for Dick Grayson after another. He mourned as his seven family members were laid to rest along with several other circus members in an old, neglected cemetery near Blüdhaven, each adorned only with a small plaque marked with initials, for cheaper burial costs. Even Mr. Zucco, who died when the fire spread to the cookhouse where he lay unconscious, was given no more of a monument than the rest. The surviving circus troupe came together one last time to pay their respects, and then retreated to solitary sorrow.

The circus was bankrupted by lawsuits of negligence and criminal charges. Insurance paid for the loss of property and medical bills for workers and patrons hurt in the melee. However, many of the workers, performers and animals had perished; those that survived feared the Red Hood would return to finish the job if they stayed.

Niccola faced a slow recovery as the burns to her arm limited her use. She and Sergei took in the remaining Grayson to foster, however, the state declared him an orphan and found the Prolytov's unfit to parent due to their nomadic lifestyle and Niccola's injuries. Dick was taken from them and placed in a state run orphanage.

The last image Dick has of them is Sergei holding Niccola back from running to grab the child as he was pushed into a government van by a social worker. Dick remembers yelling to them to save him, that he was sorry if he did something wrong and not to send him away as Niccola collapsed into Sergei's arms. The restrained and stoic man, whom had always imparted the value of strict suppression of emotion, flinched with a twitch of his eye and Dick thought he could see a glisten of a teardrop sneak from the corner of Sergei's eye as he held his wilted wife. But then Dick was shoved into the windowless van and, with the slamming of the door, darkness entered his life as the world he knew was taken away forever.

He tried many times to escape the foster care system to find Sergei and Niccola, but as they always lived town to town with whatever roaming show they could find work, Dick could not keep up with their whereabouts before being found again by Social Services.

Eventually he was branded too difficult for foster care and was placed in a juvenile facility with locked doors and security guards.

A flicker in the overhead fluorescent light brings his attention back to the present. By his estimation, it is just after sunrise. He has counted two shift changes since he came in and this last cup of coffee was fresher than the others. He assumes that something big has occurred in the city to delay his release. For three or four hours, he seemed to have been forgotten. Then, an officer scurried into the room just to apologize for the delay and offer him something to drink or eat. He knew at that point that he was being passed around through the precinct to whoever wasn't absorbed in whatever overnight crisis had taken precedence.

Though most of his equipment was confiscated upon arrival at the station, he always keeps a few special items hidden for emergencies. These accessories would have been enough for him to escape custody during the flurry of overnight activity that drew his investigators' attentions elsewhere, but he is in no hurry to leave Gotham anyway. He does have other business here, just as he said to Joseph Kerr.

The door opens again and Rene Montoya enters with Dick's belongings.

"Sorry for the delay. Things are a little eventful here this morning, so you'll have to check out your possessions here. Then you're free to go."

Dick takes the plastic container and begins checking off the items on the inventory sheet.

Detective Montoya smirks at the contrast of his disheveled look and professional demeanor, "I see you've been through this before."

Dick doesn't pause going through the bag as he answers her, "Life of a bounty hunter. We're often confused with the criminal."

Montoya takes a breath and the emotion disappears from her face, "Look it's none of my business, but I saw your record. You've recaptured five men named Joseph Kerr in the last two years. This isn't about the job for you; it's personal. You're looking for someone specific."

Dick zips the backpack shut, "You're right. It isn't your business."

Taking the inventory sheet, René looks sternly at the young man, "Just make sure when you find him that you don't become the criminal. You're too young to throw away your future for vengeance."

Without a word, Dick shoves his sunglasses onto his face, tosses the pack over his shoulder and walks out the door, leaving Montoya to wonder if there is anything left to the young man other than the need for revenge.

Walking from the police station, Dick removes the sunglasses and slides them into a pocket of his well-worn leather jacket. The cloudy sky distills the sunlight to a milky glow, making the transition from fluorescent light of the station to the outside world less of a contrast for the eyes.

On the street, the bounty hunter's phone rings. Though he doesn't work out of the home office in Metropolis, he knows the number well. He flips open the phone and puts it to his ear, "Go for Grayson."

The dispatch voice on the other end is all too familiar to him. "Another town, another jail cell right?"

Dick's friend and mentor, Slade Wilson, was one of the best skip tracers in the business until he lost his right eye on an assignment a few months ago. During his recovery and rehabilitation, he's been covering the assignment desk at the home office.

"Hey eye patch, thanks for smoothing it over with the blue boys here." If there is anyone left in this world that Dick Grayson respects, it is Slade Wilson. At a time when the young Grayson was looking for purpose and direction as he transitioned to adulthood, Slade was there to guide him.

"Figured I should get you out before the old man sees the bill from Gotham for the bridge or he might want to leave you in there. But you got him right? It's over." The optimism is Slade's voice is unmistakable.

"It wasn't him Slade." Dick was hoping this trip to Gotham would sate the hunger for vengeance that has been gnawing within him for a decade.

The silence on the other end of the phone is uncharacteristically morose for the assured and feisty Slade. Dick knows it can only mean his friend has run out of ways to cover up this crusade for justice. "The old man knows doesn't he?"

Slade's voice now comes through in a hushed, serious tone. "Not the whole story, but he's putting the pieces together. They've got you under review. You're going to be put on assignment deferral by the end of the week pending further investigation."

"Then I guess I better work quickly here. You have anything for me?" Dick knows he has one last chance before he is cut off from the assistance and protection the home office provides.

The sound of papers shuffling creates a cacophonic clatter through the phone's earpiece. The noise subsides and in the silence Dick hears the words he has been waiting for.

"What if I could give you a meeting involving the Red Hood."


	13. Hoodwinked

_Ch. 12: Hoodwinked_

Dick Grayson has traded his worn red leather jacket for black BDU fatigues. His face is smeared with black grease paint over the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks and brow, camouflaging him in the night, but also giving the impression of a mask. He locks a small video camera into a tripod and points it to the darkened alley below. He switches the camera to low light mode, allowing him a night vision of a sort through the LCD monitor on the camera.

While watching the street below, he straps a black mesh tactical vest over his shoulders and around his torso, discretely pulling the zipper into place. He steps into a rappelling harness, pulling it up to his waist and tightens the nylon straps around his legs. Pulling a metal figure 8 ring from his vest, he clips it to the metal karabiner in the rappelling harness and secures a cord to the other end of the ring.

He spots movement on his improvised night vision camera and zooms in for a closer look. Within the green glow of the LCD screen, the grainy image of two people meeting in the street below is now his focus.

Then he sees what he has been looking for, a man wearing a red hood.

Dick crouches on the ledge of the roof waiting for the men to back into the shadows near the side of the building. Peering into the darkness he sees his chance and dives over the side of the structure. The bungee cord attached to his harness follows and the slack in the line stiffens to support the weight of the dive, stretching to slow his silent descent.

The two men in the alley feel his presence only milliseconds before he is in their space. As the bungee line stops his freefall and hoists its passenger skyward, he grabs the Red Hood by the jacket and lifts him back toward the roof. The man left in the alley flees from the fray, fearing that whatever took his cohort might come back for him next.

"Nice try" is the only reaction Dick gets as the hooded man pulls a gun from his waist and aims to the adjacent building. With a small pop, a tethered line shoots across the alley and connects to a fire escape.

The Red Hood locks the line to his waist and retracts, pulling himself and Dick toward the fire escape as gravity begins to pull them back to the ground. The bungee line stretches with a low groan as the opposing line pulls them farther away from the launch site.

The Red Hood palms a small blade and slices the bungee cord harnessed to Dick, and the two swing through the alley as the tension in the line is severed. The bounty hunter now clings to his prey to keep from falling. He knows it is a distinct tactical disadvantage, and quickly surveys the streetscape passing him by.

Seeing his opportunity, he releases his captive and tucks into a midair somersault to reposition his body for landing. With perfect aim, he lands on a balcony overlooking the street. Across the alley, the Red Hood has reached his fire escape and is fleeing up to the roof.

Dick pulls a collapsible climbing hook from a pouch of his tactical vest, and with a flick of his thumb, the spring-loaded barbs jab outward. At the sound, the Red Hood looks across the alley from the fire escape ladder, watching intently as the young man produces a mini crossbow from within his tactical vest with much the slight of hand as a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. In seconds, the crossbow is assembled and drawn as he nocks the climbing hook in place.

The Red Hood dashes up the fire escape toward the rooftop as the bounty hunter releases the bowstring and sends the grappling hook soaring across the alley. It makes contact with the building as the hooded man leaps to the rooftop and begins ripping off his hood and jacket, becoming one with the darkness.

Swinging across the alley, Dick Grayson curls his legs forward to land vertically against the adjacent building. The muscles in his arms tense as he hoists himself up the side of the wall with the same ease as walking down the street.

Pulling himself over the building's ledge, he pounces to the concrete crown of the structure and studies the darkness to look for clues to track his prey. The puddles from the alley below had saturated the boot treads of his target, leaving a faintly stamped trail on the concrete rooftop. Each print fainter than the one before, Dick knows he only has seconds to get within visual range or he will lose his mark. Running across the roof just as the footprints vanish, he spots the crook's jacket and the red hood discarded randomly on the cement, but their owner is nowhere in sight.

Bending down to retrieve the hood, a voice comes from behind him. "Looking for me?"

Still crouching, Dick pulls a collapsed baton from his mesh vest and readies his thumb on the release. As he springs to his feet, releasing the trigger on the baton, he spins swinging the rod toward his foe. The baton hits the gloved forearm of Batman. In one graceful motion, Batman uses the protruding scalloped hooks on his gloves to trap the baton and, with a twist of his wrist, rips the wand from the bounty hunter's hand to send it hurtling out of range across the rooftop.

Not one to take urban legend seriously, Dick is momentarily dumbfounded being face to face with a myth. Refocusing quickly, he uses the hood as distraction. Lifting the red hood up for Batman to see, he stakes his claim. "I want him."

When Batman's eyes shift to the hood, Grayson makes his move with a hook punch from the other fist. It catches the caped crusader off guard and gives Dick a chance to mount an attack. He drops the hood and pulls a pair of brass knuckles from the vest. Slipping them on to his right hand, he is ready as soon as Batman regains his balance.

Hoping to knock the wind out of him, Dick launches an uppercut into Batman's gut, but the bi-weave Kevlar absorbs the blow. Batman glances down at the fist without as much as a grunt. Grabbing a pressure point in Grayson's wrist, Batman brings the hunter to his knees.

"The Red Hood isn't just one man." Batman's revelation startles Dick as he realizes he may not be the only person interested in Joseph Kerr.

Dick grimaces through the discomfort in his arm and looks up at his opponent, "I know which one I'm after, how about you?"

"Let me save you the trouble. Joseph tried to overthrow his father years ago and lost." Batman releases his grip and backs away from the bounty hunter.

Dick is simultaneously impressed and astonished that his mission has garnered the Batman's attention. "How did you…"

"I saw your stunt on the bridge and decided I should get to know the new kid in town. Kerr was excommunicated from the family after his failed coup. He disappeared after that, and not just from Gotham. Mob traitors don't get to retire peacefully."

"Why are you telling me this?" Dick's skepticism of the Batman's information is all too obvious.

"Because I want you out of my city. Your search is over."

"So that meeting tonight was just a set up to get to me."

Batman walks to the edge of the building, leaving Dick Grayson kneeling on the concrete. "It also effectively destroyed the criminal persona known as the Red Hood. Rumor will spread that it was me who dropped in on that meeting and took the Hood out. The credibility that accompanied that mask is now gone."

Dick shouts to the masked avenger as he turns to face the street below, "Why should I trust you?"

Batman doesn't even turn to face to the young man. "I don't want your trust."

Batman steps from the roof and silently disappears into the night, leaving the young Grayson to contemplate where his life goes from here, with the red hood laying in front of him.


	14. Do No Harm

Ch. 13: Do No Harm

Science was never Jean-Paul's favorite subject in school, but now he is the experiment. It is intended to be a phase one randomized clinical trial to determine dosage levels, delivery method and effects on the body of the new wonder drug, VENOM lab's serum #412, known by the brand name Invixil. Jean-Paul is one of thirty one test subjects chosen for the study. At his first visit to the clinic, he wonders if anyone else has been offered a deal similar to his to get into this study, and suddenly feels his stomach twist into a knot as he realizes he may have donated his body to science, but bartered his soul to the devil.

If he is to believe the Batman, this is a chance at redemption, but looking at the poor invalid at the other end of the floor, in a full body cast with every form of life support machine plugged into him, Jean-Paul feels less like he's receiving a second chance, and more as though he has just entered a purgatorial prison, where what little life remains in his body will be drained slowly and painfully until the empty shell cracks and crumbles to ash.

He tries to stay focused on the information presented to him during his orientation with the technician, but the police officer in him is taking in his surroundings during the lecture. Coma patients, paraplegics, burn victims, cancer and cardiac cases are also being enrolled as test subjects. Several of the less mobile patients, like him, are given permanent beds at the facility rather than travel back and forth for treatment.

He overhears two techs discussing another room which will administer the treatment to the neurological disorders involved in the trial: autism, bipolar and schizophrenia. There is also another area, where children with birth defects, growth disorders and bone fractures are receiving the serum. He begins to wonder how all of these disparate conditions can benefit from the same medication.

He is told he will be receiving what is considered the mid-range dosage of the trial through injections to the Thymus gland, while another patient with a similar paralysis will receive the same dosage in oral form to see which delivery method is more effective. So it will be with all the participants, two by two to determine the best means to the end result. Curiously, the man in the full body cast is the exception.

His name is listed as John Doe, and he arrived in a coma after being treated for several broken bones and severe internal trauma. It is difficult to tell the extent of his damage, but it looks as though he had taken a harsh beating, was stabbed multiple times and then burned in case the other injuries weren't enough. Jean Paul overheard the lead doctor of the study, Dr. Mark Desmond, mention possible brain damage to one of the technicians.

This patient is receiving the serum by an experimental method. A synthetic gland, developed from stem cells, is being surgically implanted. In theory, this gland will produce and secrete the serum as the body requires it in times of need, when triggered by infection, injury or adrenal demands for additional immunity, strength and stamina, once fully developed and bonded to the host body. For now, the gland is tethered to external supply lines.

Obviously, Jean Paul assumes, this subject is being tested as part of VENOM lab's military funding contract. He is probably some unlucky soldier from overseas deployment who didn't realize the extent of the phrase 'be all you can be' when he enlisted.

His focus is brought back to his own plight when the technician asks if he understands the risks of the treatment. Jean Paul missed the list of possible side effects but thinks to himself _'what the hell, I'm already paralyzed. What can you do to me that's worse than this?'_

The "miracle" of Invixil is the way it uses the human body to achieve its purpose. A cocktail of acronym laden enzymes such as PEG and ADA, amino acids, thymic epithelial cells, and human growth hormone, the serum stimulates the regeneration of the Thymus to pre-puberty levels. Once reactivated, the gland enhances the patient's natural levels of health and fitness.

Although the initial research led developers to consider the potential to help those with auto immune diseases and immunodeficiency syndromes, it was quickly realized that the serum held much more promise than just that. The military took notice when animal testing showed results of advanced healing of wounds and broken bones. The additional benefits of increased strength and stamina in healthy animals boosted the defense department's interest.

The combined support of the government and majority shareholder Wayne Enterprises provided enough financial sustenance to fast track the integration of Dr. Catherine Henner's research on viral genetics and immunology, much to the dismay of competitors Queen Industries and LexCorp. The inclusion of Henner's avian flu data, also provided by the backing of Wayne Enterprises, was the key to unlocking the secrets of besieged and beleaguered immune systems.

However, none of the participants, including Jean Paul, are aware of the sordid history of the serum and its competitors, nor do they care about corporate benefactors and political agendas that have motivated the advancement of the wonder drug. To them, it is the prospect of a prosperous vivacity they have been craving with gnawing hunger, the dangling carrot that gives them the strength to live each day in spite of the physical pain and mental anguish of their ailments. It is their hope of a better life.

Barely listening through the orientation, Jean Paul signs the medical waivers and is told he will still receive the standard protocols for physical rehabilitation in addition to the serum. His progress will be measured against patients solely receiving physical therapy. His attention is once again distracted from the technician's droning sermon as he looks at the faces throughout the room and recognizes that unmistakable gleam of hope on each of them.

He receives the injection to the gland in his chest, and with his first deep breath, a burning sensation spreads outward to the rest of his body, including his numb, immovable legs. The technician tells him this is normal with the injections as the serum enters the blood stream. It quickly fades, leaving only a mild tingle radiating down through his legs and feet.

As he is being returned to his bed, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he passes a communal bathroom along the hallway. The image leaves him doubting his own determination and clarity of focus. Instead of the hope he has witnessed on each of the other patients in the study, his face shows only concern and misgiving about the opportunity extended to him, and that lingering feeling that placing his trust in the masked vigilante will only lead to more misfortune and loss.

Jean Paul's wheelchair rolls through the door of his room and the sight takes his breath away, both from shock and dread. A woman he never thought he'd see again, whether by circumstance or design, was sitting on the edge of his bed.

Chase Meridian rises nervously when she sees him. When she heard he was working the force in Gotham, this wasn't the image that came to mind. She knew him when they were just embarking on their dream careers at the FBI Academy at Quantico. They met at orientation and developed a clandestine relationship during their training. They were trying to figure out how to stay together, as a couple and co-workers, when the incident occurred.

It was their custom to sneak out to Hogan's Alley, the faux city street on the Academy grounds, at night to meet for their covert rendezvous; thinking they were beyond suspicion, they became reckless and wanton in their lusty gluttony. One night, they were caught. Discipline was swift. They were transferred to separate training groups, put on probation and assured their assignments after graduation would be far from each other if they wanted to continue in their chosen professions.

Still, Jean Paul was undeterred in his pursuit. He converted a network of accomplices to aid in getting messages to Chase, and finally was able to set up a meeting away from the watchful eyes of the training officers.

It was a classroom that was to serve as their private meeting spot by calling in a favor to an overnight security guard to look the other way for an hour or two while the lovers convened for a date in the darkness. Assuming he was under constant surveillance, Jean Paul utilized his compound of confidants to arrange the set up with Chase as well as the guard.

It was no easy task to move secret messages among a population of trained investigators, and the process took time and patience to reach the intended targets. It was also this lethargy that would make possible the incident which would set Jean Paul on the path to his current situation.

The night of the intended tryst, the watchman left early due to a family emergency. He hurriedly scrawled a message to Jean Paul and sent it through the system for delivery, but the note didn't make it on time.

But that wasn't the only letter attempting to race the clock and make its way to the lovelorn trainee. Chase was having second thoughts about tempting fate, and had resigned herself to the notion that their careers were more important than a midnight delight. She had written to let Jean Paul know she wouldn't be there. She knew it was going to be difficult to get word to him in time, but at worst, she thought, he would be left alone to bid a solemn farewell to the burgeoning bond that would go unfulfilled.

Jean Paul was standing alone in the darkened room when the flashlight beam shined through the frosted glass pane of the door. He never thought to hide, thinking it either his love arriving or the sentry making a charade of a sweep to keep appearances. It was only after the door opened and the beam hit his face that he realized how badly the night was going.

He could hear the firearm slide free from the holster. The flashlight shuddered ever so slightly as the pistol fell into place beside it, in the guard's outstretched arms. Orders were shouted from behind the light. From behind foggy thoughts of being setup or even betrayed, Jean Paul complied with the requests to put his hands in the air, and kneel. The lights of the room flashed on and still Jean Paul was focused on who had wronged him.

It was when the watchman reached for the radio that a primal instinct of rage exploded within him. Spinning around he caught the guard's legs and let gravity handle the rest. He bounced onto the man's chest, feeling the breath deflate from the man's lungs with a deathly hiss. The guard's radio and gun were out of reach of both men, but Jean Paul's fists were the only weapons he needed.

With rhythmic percussion, the sound of knuckles on jawbone reverberated through the room; a snare whip signaled the breaking of the guard's nose. As the last echo of the beating faded from the hallway outside the room, Jean Paul staggered to the door in a delirium, his face, shirt and hands covered in blood. He wandered aimlessly out of the building, unbalanced and without regard to his appearance. He immediately drew the attention of other security reinforcements and when he recovered his clarity, he was in a holding cell under armed guard.

He washed out of the program and was off the grounds before Chase ever got to see him again or explain why she stood him up that night. She knew he pulled his life together and found a second chance with the Gotham P.D., and so she thought it best to let him move forward without reopening the wounds of his past only to absolve herself of her own regret.

But then she was sent to Gotham on the case of a lifetime. The exotic nightlife in Gotham, criminal and vigilante, was a career defining opportunity. She knew that to accept it meant she would have to explain her actions to the man she gave up.

When she sees his broken physical form in the wheelchair, she just hopes he is ready to hear it. Jean Paul grabs the chrome hand bar that encircles each wheel of the chair and stops the technician in the doorway. He brusquely tells the tech to leave them alone and sits there staring down the composed FBI agent.

She speaks first, as he shows no sign of having anything but a lethal glare for her. "J.P., I didn't want to be in this city and not settle things with you."

His taut jaw unlocks, at first seeming as though the words will not come out. "You settled it that night at the Academy."

She explains her side of that fateful night, and offers a quiet apology as he sits silently, unresponsive to her petition for understanding. After an eternity of stillness between them, she slowly picks up her jacket, sorrowfully parting once again. As she passes him at the door, she whispers "I'm in town for a while, if you change your mind, I'd like to spend time with you."

His flippantly derisive comeback stings on many levels, "Am I to be a case study or a pity screw?"

He doesn't even notice the tears flowing down her cheek as she brushes past to leave.


	15. Creatures of the Night Part 1

_Ch. 14: Creatures of the Night_

"I have a nightmare that haunts me repeatedly. The sun is bright and hot, like summertime, and I can feel each particle of its radiant heat hit my skin and melt into me. I'm in a convertible sports car with the top down, some random guy beside me who I don't recognize, and we are flying down the coastal highway, near the Palisades, screaming at the top of our lungs like it will encourage the car to go faster. The car doesn't belong to either of us, of course. It has been borrowed, probably with the intent to return it. But at that moment, the concoction of chemicals in my body – both natural and otherwise, gives me the feeling of invincibility. No fear of consequence or repercussion, just a complete focus on the rapture of the moment."

Bruce stares deeply into her eyes from across the table as she opens the book of her tortured essence to lie upon the slab with the remnants of their dinners. A slight shiver creeps up Selina's spine as she finishes describing her haunting vision. An unusual awkwardness comes upon her as Bruce silently gazes at her. She twists and twirls the cloth napkin in her hand, letting it slither around between her fingers. He responds with a baiting, inquisitional quip, "I don't think many people would call that a nightmare."

She has taught herself not to shroud the details of her past out of embarrassment, guilt or to dilute the impact her actions had on herself and others. This approach garners its share of astonishment, admiration and antipathy, depending on the perspective of her audience. She has learned to accept all reactions to her confessions of a wayward youth with much less disapproval than is often given her. But the way Bruce gazes at her is different, more penetrating, as if he is seeing past the persona that presents itself to the world and searching for the source of something deep within her. She finds his stare soothing and unsettling, as if it beguiles both sides of her dichotomous character simultaneously. And she realizes she is drawn to him in much the same way she was drawn to drugs. It is with that revelation that she finishes the story, "The scary part is how much I still love that feeling."

The French restaurant is a frequent stop for Bruce in his weekly circuit of Gotham's nightlife appearances. He was never partial to French cuisine, but there is always a plethora of tabloid photographers outside the huge glass walls to aid him in keeping the disguise of trust fund playboy a part of the city's mythos. The maitre d' even appears to have taken a lesson or two from his renowned guest with stealthy entrances and exits to provide for his patrons.

While Bruce chooses such a setting out of duty and obligation to his caste imposed heritage, Selina relishes a luxury laden lifestyle. Much of her family's fortune was denied her early in life because of the ways she abused and squandered it for illicit pleasure. Acquiring access to it was a benchmark in her recovery process, so much so, that she provisioned for it to be locked away again if she ever returned to a self destructive lifestyle.

She knows she has pushed that caveat to the limit with her nighttime outings as the curious cat looking for adventure, but she rationalizes it as just harmless thrill seeking and mischief. She has only intruded upon those who could afford it or were heavily insured, never taking from the destitute. Often, she has not even kept her treasures after the excitement of the capture has faded, allowing the owner to reclaim their property unharmed. Occasionally, she's even returned it to the very spot she found it, just to prove she could.

In fact, until she herself felt the sting of a burglar, the feminine feline never had direct contact with another person while cavorting around the rooftops. She always secretly hoped her first encounter would be the bat. She anticipated some karmic equilibrium that might compel two people unleashing their inner animal spirits to seek each other out. But, bumping into Batman in a city the size of Gotham is still a statistical anomaly, unless you go to extremes.

She is captivated with a life of duality. Her need for adrenaline rushes sated by her costumed excursions, the amenity laden life she's constructed as a consultant art appraiser, historian and exhibitor quenches her desire for the luxurious side of life. The sacrifice required of her to maintain the equilibrium is the wall that guards her secret.

The wall is not a straight-line border to divide one life from another. It is a circuitous blockade separating both her lives from the outside world, insulating her from getting too close to anyone that could disturb the delicate balance of the constructed conscious of either identity. It is also a bisecting delineation between the cat and the woman, ensuring that neither intrudes upon the other, as any intersection between the two would likely collapse the tendrils of both frameworks.

This self awareness of walking a balance beam between personas provides a type of third person perspective to her daily living. Much like skipping ahead to the last page of a book, she can foresee where her choices will lead long before the outcome comes to pass. As long as she is in control of both identities, there are limitations to both that keep them safe from each other and the unconstrained Freudian Id that ruled Selina's youth.

It is through this intrinsic intuition that she knows she'll wake in his bed in the morning. If she lets this continue, she will give in to the feelings she once had for him, feelings based on clouded memories from drug induced adventures. Whether she wants that or not isn't relevant. There are two reasons she can't let that happen. Trying to recapture a nostalgic high while in recovery is never a good door to open and it isn't fair to him.

Bruce was messed up when she met him too. Still grieving the loss of his parents, his self torture was extroverted, unleashing itself upon the world. Even then, she could see a singularity of determination in him. That is still there tonight. But now he is in control of it, not the other way around.

When they were together, they brought out the worst in each other. They fostered the other's rebellious ways and encouraged greater achievements of reckless endangerment through tacit competition. Though the dissenting prodigals have aged and matured, those younger versions are still dormant inside, waiting to be released by the right impulse.

Bruce notices the distant gaze in her eyes and offers an apologetic disclaimer. "I hope I didn't schedule our plans too late in the evening. I'm a bit of a night owl, and not always mindful of what might be called 'normal business hours'."

She snaps back to the moment, realizing she may have offended her companion. "Well, it's a good thing neither of us is here for business, isn't it?" She raises her flute of sparkling water to toast him with the slightest flutter of a wink. Her playfulness burrows through his cold, guarded shell; it settles in an empty spot where his own roguish spirit once thrived.

She momentarily sees something familiar in his eyes before it is veiled with a blink, a preoccupied gaze that belies his attentiveness to the present. She wonders if he too is seeing something other than the crowded restaurant and the gawking spectators. Her curious character wonders what secret projection is unspooling on the mental movie screen of her dinner companion.

"I know that look. I remember a boy who used to drift away in his own thoughts. Is it a memory or a fantasy?" she asks quizzically.

Bruce smiles at being caught with his mind roving; few are able to glimpse the inner monologues. "A bit of both I guess you could say."

She admires this version of Bruce Wayne. His self imposed sabbatical allowed him to return to public life with cathartic temperance. Still renowned for his lavish, adventurous exploits, he also reclaimed his birthright to Wayne Enterprises and has become a skilled and shrewd businessman in leading the company while keeping it true to his father's intentions.

This is the Bruce Wayne she was hoping to see, and it is also the one whose life she knows she can't be a part. She finds no place for her delicately balanced duality within his world because she cannot see his own segregated psyche. It is his version of her parlor trick and both succumb to the illusion of the other with full acceptance.

It is with the counterfeit conviction that she is looking after his best interest, and not her own dual identities, that she interrupts him as he is asking her to accompany him to a new musical currently in previews on Theatre Row, "Bruce, tonight was lovely, and you are…everything I hoped you would turn out to be. But, our history, we don't have a great track record for fulfilling our potential when we're together. I don't want that, for either of us."

Bruce is stung by the rejection even though he's known the same truth through this evening about the toxicity of their combustible combination. The scorching indiscretions they once ignited in each other were explosive, and could be again. He too knows the value of control, and the price of losing it. "Selina, we don't have to be defined by our pasts. They are always with us, but we can use them to be whoever we want to be."

She never breaks eye contact with him as she stands resolute. "That's the problem. I have a feeling I know who we are really meant to be."

Though she knows this is the best course of action for the respected art expert, it displeases her primal instincts to pull away. Her decision requires an equivalent exchange to maintain the alchemic balance of duality within her, and she feels the yearning to be enveloped by the night.

The conversation between her and Bruce becomes sluggish and clumsy in its rhythm and tempo. Pauses linger longer as the two navigate through intricate articulation to express their common wish.

They both want to be someone else for a while.


	16. Creatures of the Night Part 2

_A Gotham Night Dreary_

_Ch. 15: Creatures of the Night - Part 2_

The cape billows in the night breeze as it loses it rigid glider form, but the breeze alone isn't the only movement in the dark. The Batman pursues his prey across the skyline of luxury condos, not his usual route, but he feels drawn to the upscale side of the city after Bruce's evening out with Selina Kyle.

The date didn't go as well as planned, leaving him conflicted about expending so much energy to be Bruce Wayne. To him, Bruce Wayne is the urban legend of Gotham city and Batman is reality. But, spending time with Selina made him want to be Bruce a little longer tonight, causing her rejection to sting that much more.

He finds relief from this inner turmoil in the cape and cowl. Bruce's unrequited attraction to Selina doesn't matter to Batman. The life of Bruce Wayne can return to being the fanciful concoction Alfred intended it to be. Hopefully, when he must once again don the guise of the orphaned heir, the emotional connection he felt tonight will have faded.

To fully cleanse his palette of the taint, he knows he must exorcize the lingering feelings by fulfilling his duty as the city's anonymous guardian. The irony to his quest is that the burglar he is chasing emerged from the same building as Selina's condominium.

Normally, a thief wouldn't garner this much of his attention. He would trip an alarm and let the police apprehend the intruder. There is something different about the way this prowler moves though. There is a level of skill not usually seen in Gotham's nightlife. Not only does this one move with the poise and precision of a ballet dancer, but she seems to prefer the labyrinth of rooftop plateaus and fire escape jungles to race and swing her way through the urban wilderness.

Rather than chasing her, he seems content following and observing her in her natural habitat, like an undomesticated lioness on the plains being chronicled through the telephoto lens of a photographer. He keeps his distance, mindful that his presence could disrupt the natural migration of her nocturnal jaunt if discovered.

Deciphering her motive has become a game. She doesn't appear to be seeking cover like most burglars carrying their score, but she isn't moving to a specific target with any kind of focus or determination. The best way he can describe her movement is…window shopping. The curiosity and patience in her search for her mark is intriguing to him, and goes against everything he knows of stealing based on desperation, impulse gratification, social disorders or to support drug habits.

Her nocturnal spree builds in its intensity. She moves more forcefully against the calm of the sky, thrusting herself across the abyss between structures and bending elastically as she slinks and slides her body through the obstacles in her way.

She increases the speed of her movement, building to a climactic crescendo of kinetic release. He can match it of course, but it requires him to let go of his inhibitions and tap into the primal, unbridled lust for cavorting through the nighttime maze of Gotham. His usual temperance of stealth and secrecy must be subordinated to the passion of his dance with the darkness.

He feels the heat build within as he matches her pace. The night air pelts his lips and brushes his cheeks like the caress of a lover. Vibrations race through his muscles as his feet pound against the roof tops to meet her rhythm. The sweaty sheen that has formed on his skin lubricates the body suit between him and the armor, tickling the hair on his arms and legs with an excitement that has never been allowed in the cold, vengeance filled persona.

She suddenly stops and turns at the edge of a building, waiting for him to satisfy her urge to meet the ghost of Gotham. He looks at her from the adjacent rooftop, their eyes locked upon one another.

Silently they face off with only the grotto of the darkened alley between them, their chests heaving from the exertion of the joyride through their playground. She breathily proclaims her wonderment at meeting him, "Wow! You're even more menacing in person than I imagined."

He gazes at her, taking in the full unobstructed view of her form, memorizing how the vinyl molds to her skin and reflects the luminance of the city lights. The irony is not lost on him that, at just the right angle, this glow mimics an angelic halo effect around the masked bandit. "You do realize criminals don't usually stop to talk to me."

With a blink, her eyes soften to a seductively pleading appearance, "I haven't done anything illegal…" and with the slightest, barely noticeable pause, "tonight."

The smile she flashes is meant to tease and he knows it. "I know you're a thief."

She's heard the stories of his ruthlessness to lawbreakers, yet she can't help but display a puckish rebelliousness to his statements. "Feel free to frisk me."

In a glance, he optically assesses the threat level of his opponent. The skin tight outfit provides few hiding places for weapons. The whip swings wistfully as it dangles from the belt clip over her hip. He quickly runs through a list of the specialized experience a person carrying a whip might have; circus and cattle ranching are the only vocations that spring to mind and he suddenly realizes he still has much to learn to keep up with the psychological profiles of the increasingly odd and unique criminal element of his city.

He sees no other tools on the thief. His instincts tell him there is more to this cat burglar than can be seen; his training reminds him to be sure before getting closer. "Just out for a midnight stroll then?"

"The night air helps me sleep." It is an admission more honest that she intended. Perhaps it was the rush of the chase, or seeing him in person or the kinship she imagines they must share to adorn their animalistic personas, but she finds it easy to open up to ominous cloaked man across from her.

"So you're headed home then. Terrible things can happen to people out this late at night." A passive-aggressive threat is not the best way to instill fear of the Batman. He immediately realizes he has lost control of the situation with hesitation and uncertainty. He must end this.

"Is that an offer to escort me? How gentlemanly. Although you should know I won't invite you in on the first date." Her playfulness is somewhat endearing. He marvels at the calm demeanor she is displaying with him. Most panic, some even lose bladder control.

"Maybe next time then." In the distance a siren howls like a wolf baying at the moon. Both turn to the noise. "I'll be watching you now." He steps off the roof into the abyss of the alley. The sound of a grappling line launching in the darkness signals his departure.

Ten rooftops away, a confused Dick Grayson packs away his night vision scope and parabolic sound amplifier. "For a lone vigilante, this guy has a lot of rooftop conversations."


End file.
